Punch
by SmokeMyCancer
Summary: Love makes you feel like everything is perfect. But love lies. Drugs sugar coat pain. But drugs destroy. Love rebuilds the leftovers if you let it. A collection of Ian/Mickey drabbles. Sort of AU.
1. Things to Come

Punch

Drabble One : Things to Come

Somebody called the cops. There are lights filling this house with red and blue hues.

My brother's face is twisted. If this were a cartoon, he'd have steam shooting out of his ears. His eyes would roll up red until a tiny thermometer popped up and ruptured.

I feel like I'm glued against this wall, feeling around the bottom of my mouth with the tip of my tongue to see that my teeth are all still there. It's hard to say. All I can taste is iron. My douchebag brother, he hit me so hard that I can't really see anything if I blink too fast. So I'm having to control what is usually natural. I hear my sister screaming, furious. And she's also stooped down beside me, trying to hug me against her. She's sorry, so sorry, so she says. She didn't mean to say it out loud. Well, she had, but how was she to know Colin was around.

When the door is kicked in, it's all I can do not to laugh. I can feel half of my face, and I'm pretty sure I'm smiling. Like a lunatic.

The cop standing over Colin, cuffing the mad son-of-a-bitch, calls for his partner. "A bus!" he screams. "Call for an ambulance!" And all I can think is these guys should have thought ahead.

His partner is cuffing the guy who just saved my life. My sister, still hugging against me, is cussing the police. And me, I'm finally laughing.

* * *

**NOTES**: HOLY FUCK! Long time no see! For those of you who were keeping up with "The Whore," know that it is on hold now. I'm not giving up on it, but I am stuck. I'll eventually get back around to it, I'm sure. For now, enjoy these drabbles.

What I mean by _"sort of AU"_ is that this takes place in the Shameless we're used to. . .difference is, **Mickey hasn't lived in SouthSide since he was 13** and now he's back. There will be other slight differences too, like with Fiona and Lip. Mainly that Fiona left with Jimmy and Lip has taken her place as head of household. From there, we'll see what I come up with. This entire thing is basically a tangent.

Consider these drabbles puzzle pieces to a big picture. I meant for some of them to be vague. For some of them to drop hints at what's actually going on. For others to tell of something totally different. . .but still carry out the plot. And they may not always be in perfect order, on purpose lol. Enjoy!

In case anyone was wondering, I think I must write better when I'm super upset. Because, as some of you knew, I was busy in a relationship. It didn't work out. And suddenly I can write again. Kinda sucks. Actually, it sucks really bad. I need hugs. Long, awkward power hugs.


	2. Probation Skank

Drabble Two : Probation Skank

My probation officer's name is Reba, and she has this big bun on the top of her head. It's not her real hair. Her real hair is this mud brown color and the bun is black. Maybe fake is the look she was going for. Bad taste aside, Reba is a real sweet lady. I hate people like her. She's a do-gooder who thinks I need her help. Who thinks I'll tolerate her smile forever.

"Mickey," Reba tells me, a big smile plastered to her pink lips, hands clasp in front of her chest, "I just know this will work out for you. You can fight your history by starting over here."

She has this romantic idea that I can be different than my old man. And I hate to break it to her.

Standing in front of this shack, burgundy banner and gold letters calling it the Kash and Grab, Reba beams at me and waves me to go ahead of her. "Linda says it's a trial basis," Reba sighs when she gets the hint and goes first through the door. The bell dings, letting whoever runs this shithole know someone has entered. "But it will work out, it will, if you behave," Reba confirms, winking at me as she looks over her shoulder. She stops us in front of the counter.

I'm just barely eighteen now, and I feel like this bitch thinks I'm four.

Finally some Indian lady comes out from a back room, arms chucked full of plastic wrapped cases of Blue Diamond almonds. She hefts the load onto the counter, huffs, then catches her breathing. She's not smiling back at Reba when she looks me over.

"This kid?" the woman, who I guess is Linda, asks, sour faced. She smooths her features fast and arches both brows, glaring at me hard. Bitchy. This is the kind of woman I can deal with. "All right, fine," she says, not giving Reba a chance to speak. "Mickey, was it?" she asks, then doesn't give me a chance to speak either. "I catch you stealing a sip of soda," she goes, pointing at the coke machine against the far wall, "and you're out on your ass."

Reba, she's still smiling. Shakes Linda's and hand pats my back at the same time. Makes my skin crawl.

Linda rips open the almonds and goes to stock the shelves. My and Reba's eyes follow her.

"You'll work first shift," she tells me, crouched on the floor in full-on hijab garb that I hadn't noticed at first. "Only until June," she goes. "Because in six weeks, summer kicks in and the neighborhood punks think theft is a fun way to get off. So I'll need you both working second."

"Both?" I ask, brow raised, and Reba glances at me, curious.

"You and Ian," Linda breaths, wipes her forehead, and stands up, having stocked all three cases that fast.

Reba nods. "At least you won't be lonely!" she laughs, friendly.

I'd rather be, actually.


	3. Black

Drabble Three : Black

Aunt Sandra, she has this huge black bag. Mandy's too dull to know what the fuck's in it, but I'm well aware. In it, she's got all her needles and pipes and rocks and poppers. All things Sandra needs to get out of the bed and then straight back into it. How the courts can award custody to people like this, I don't really know. Or care. For me, this isn't anything I can't handle. I've practically raised myself anyway. This situation is no different than what came before it. At least the government is paying the bills this time around. Less hustling I have to get into. All I have to worry over is food. And Sandra eats up a lot of it when she's not drugged out. So I worry more than I should on how to get something that's not attached to some guy into my sister's mouth.

Sometimes I take from the grocery I work in. The bitch I work for hasn't noticed yet. My coworker has.

He'd better not rat, I think, as I pry up Sandra's bag from her clutches and put it back in the kitchen closet for her to find later. She's drooled all over the carpet and it's a stinking puddle now. I stepped in it by accident, so now I have to burn my socks.


	4. Backpacks and Bruises

Drabble Four : Crackers and Bruises

Summer has been in swing for two weeks. Already I want to kill this Ian kid. He hasn't ratted on me. Yet. But he's a real piece of work who thinks he can boss me, since he's been working here a year now. I won't lie. It's fun to have screaming matches with this guy in front of customers. By now, we should have both been fired. Our boss though, she's too busy taking her kids to mosque and hunting down her AWOL husband.

Good for me, bad for Linda's inventory. She has a steady decline in pork rinds, coke, and eggs with no green to show for it.

Ian, he's watching me from his perch behind the register. Poised there with his fist holding up his chin. Brows draw together under his bangs, mouth pouting down. As I put a gallon of milk in my backpack, he tells me to try stealing from somewhere I don't work. "Have some civic pride," he says.

I laugh. "Why don't you mind your own buisness, Gallagher," I bite at him, putting a few packs of crackers in my bag for Mandy. We're out of the peanut butter ones and those are her favorite.

"This is my business," he snaps. "What am I supposed to tell Linda when she does a count?"

Fast, I look up at him and scowl. "You better not tell her shit!" I growl and throw the pack of crackers at his face. I miss, but only barely. Probably because he flinched out of the way.

"Well I can't afford to get fired because of you!" he hisses. And so the bird flies from his perch and stomps over, grabbing my bag from me.

I reach out fast and yank it back. Tug of war and a spilled gallon of milk later and Ian's got a black eye and busted lip. I'm sitting ontop of him at ten after closing time, fist raised, ready to break his jaw open. His scared, baby face stares up at me, mouth dropped, doe eyes glossy. Breathing heavy, I lower my fist. Ian's face falters to intrigue and he looks me over. Albeit confused. Which is fair because so am I.

His heart rate is as fast as mine. I can feel his chest pounding against the back of my thigh. Ordinarily, I would have put my hand around his throat, at least threatened him. Instead, here I am with a twitch in my pants and staring lust in the eye while he rips my shirt off.

He's the first time I've ever fucked a guy. And quite frankly, I didn't hate it.


	5. Twinkle Twinkle

Drabble Five : Twinkle Twinkle

"What do you want to do, spread a blanket out and look for shooting stars next?" I ask, roll my eyes, and sip my beer. The baseball field is quiet except for Ian's belch.

Ian's brother and my sister are at Ian's place right now. They've ran him out and that's why he came out looking for me. Never mind that I'd been busy tagging the entire score-board on this lame playing field. Never liked the sport much.

Ian wipes his chin and dangles his beer bottle by his narrow hip. I have to pull my eyes away from his mouth when he grins and looks over at me. "Do you even remember much about this place?" he asks.

"What?" I chuckle. "This field? Nah." I'd been thirteen the last time I was here. Back before my mother decided she didn't love my father as much as she loved breathing. So she'd taken me and my sister and hit the road. Freedom hadn't last long. But my stay away from Chicago had.

"Funny how it took me fucking you," Ian snorts, chugging his beer, "for you to even remember me."

"Yeah, well, you're easily forgettable," I quip, snide, but smiling into my bottle. There's not as much venom behind my words as I would like. And he's grinning ear to ear, so obviously Ian knows I'm not serious. Even though I wish I was, or at least that he thought so.

Ian lets his back drag down the fence as he drops to his ass, knees up, bottle to his lips. He lights a cigarette seconds later and offers it up to me after a few drags. "I think," he tells me, thoughtful, "the only time you even spoke to me back then was if you were trying to drown me in a toilet. Or wearing my name on your weekly t-shirt."

I spit my beer, wrist going fast to my mouth. Looking down at him, furrowing my brow, I say, "You remember that shit? What were you, like five?"

He rolls his eyes and scrunches his nose up at me. "I was ten, Mickey," he corrects, like I'm an asshole or something.


	6. Nostalgia and Handjobs

Drabble Six : Nostalgia and Hand-jobs

I wish I could get as into this as my fuck buddy, whose hand is down my boxers, working at a steady pace. Feels great, but my mind's not in it.

Reason being, today my aunt Sandra was sober for five minutes and showed me pictures of my mom. I ain't seen Heather in almost five years. Not since my dad hauled up to the motel she had Mandy and me stored in, chowing down on McDonalds and watching Ren and Stimpy reruns just before Terry barged in and dragged Heather outside. I can't prove my father killed my mom, but everyone knows it.

Ian's hand stills. He exhales loudly and licks his teeth at me. Wants to know what my problem is.

Shoving him off of me I tell him it's nothing and stomp into the bathroom to splash my face.

Everybody's out except Sandra. But she's passed out in bed and won't be awake until it's time for her medicine.

"Mick," Ian groans from the bed. And if I can't see him from my bathroom, I know he's probably holding his forehead and scowling, dick ready to see some action that he now knows isn't going down. "Should I go?" he drags out, aggravated.

"Whatever," I growl, ready to rip the sink from the wall. Face dripping as I stare into the mirror.

My bed squeaks and I hear Ian's zipper and him rustling in my floor for his shirt. Muffled because he's getting dressed, he asks if I want to talk about it.

Scowling, I lightly punch the sink. "Get the fuck out of here with that pussy shit," I yell.

He's definitely angry. Ian never snaps back at me unless shit is about to hit the fan. I know this because the next words out of his mouth, without so much as a breather, he says, harsh and offended, "I'm just trying to understand you, Mickey! Why the hell do you keep pushing me away?"

I tell him no one asked him to be my fucking friend. "I like you on top of me and that's the extent of this," I spit. "Get lost."

"Go fuck yourself," Ian rumbles and my bedroom door slams. I don't blink before he thrusts it back open and tells me that I don't mean that. Slams it again while I'm screaming that he doesn't know what he's talking about. Even though sometimes I think he might.


	7. Hot Mess

Drabble Seven : Hot Mess

Frank is Ian's uncle-father. Frank, who I am certain is the only person, besides me, capable of making Ian see red. And Frank is full of shit.

"Put it back," I tell Frank's skinny ass as he stuffs cold beers down his shirt when he thinks I'm not looking. He's fast to stand up straight and tell the cooler doors, not my face, that he hasn't done anything wrong. Is in fact checking the expiration dates. Helping out. I should tip him, honestly. "Right," I say, flipping through a magazine while Ian's in the pisser. I haven't seen him since yesterday and he's been in there since I clocked in. I'd check on him, but that's too intimate. "Wanna check the ink on my knuckles while you're at it, make sure it's filled in nicely?" I threaten, half-assed, cracking said knuckles. It's hot as balls today and I'm exhausted. Bitches have been in and out of this place in hoards because of Independance day and needing stuff for barbecues.

God Bless America, let's all blow shit up and stuff our faces. Living the dream.

I hear clattering around, my eyes off of him now. He's putting whatever it was back.

"Good choice," I say, flipping the page.

Frank walks by wags his finger at me. "Jumping to conclusions is a bad way to start friendships, Mickey," Frank says. Half of the time I don't know what he's actually trying to say with the horse-shit he calls words.

"We're not friends, Frank," I tell him. "Go swallow a bottle rocket."

Once he's gone, the bathroom door suddenly opens. My guess is Ian was just leaving me on Frank duty. Some kind of retaliation for yesterday, no doubt. Looking up at him as he rounds the corner, I ready to tell him what a douchebag he is for pulling that one. Except the black and red on his race makes me take a pause. Blinking back to reality, I finally tell him he looks like shit. "What the hell happened to you?" I ask, going back to my magazine, still standing by the door. The vent is overhead, but the air isn't really cold so much as it's like hot breath. But this is still better than nothing.

Ian sighs and takes his seat at the register. Reaches under the counter and pulls up a half eaten, chocolate doughnut. Licks the side of his thumb, where jelly dripped on him. "It's nothing," he says with his mouth full. Chews and swallows. His eyes dart around the counter top and slowly his brows knit. He's probably looking for the Spite I drank as soon as I got here. "Where's my drink?" he asks, looking up with accusing eyes.

I shrug and walk over to the cooler. Tossing him a new one, I nod upward and casually say, "Awful lot of damage for it to be nothing."

He glugs down half the bottle, adam's apple bobbing. Refreshed, he caps the Sprite and tentatively touches his busted up mouth. "One of Lip's fighters pussied out," he tells me. "What do you care?"

He's grumpy. I snort at the thought. "If you're waiting on my apology," I say, "don't."

He frowns and looks away from me. "I just don't get it," he says, bitter.

"No," I say, "you don't." And after a long silence, I sighed and ask him if we can just forget this.

Rolling his eyes, Ian takes another drink of his Sprite, defiant.

I lick the corner of my mouth and am quick to wipe away the cold spit that lingers. "Go get some ice," I say as I step over to the door and flip around the sign.

Ian cocks a brow at me, still scowling. But he stands up nonetheless. Starts walking just as I lock the door.

I won't say sorry, but maybe sucking him off with shut up his bitching.


	8. Dolphins

Drabble Eight : Dolphins

I'm not fond of Ian's brother, Philip. Before my mother kidnapped Mandy and me, I was in seventh grade with Lip. We'd had one class together. Then, I had been glad for Lip's presence, due to him writing every one of my papers. Now, not so much. He's in my house basically every day now, hauled up in Mandy's room for hours on end. Occasionally they sack out on the sofa with movies and food. But only when Sandra isn't hogging the television.

Right now, the two are in the kitchen. I can hear them after I walk halfway in the front door. Ian's behind me, wasted and horny, hands trying to get under my coat. Every time I swat him away, he proves to be extremely persistent. I'd been in a hurry to get him in my room. Now I'm just frozen in place, panic killing my buzz. I reach back and punch Ian in the gut. He groans and shoves me, probably scowling.

"What the fuck, Mick?" Ian growls, actually growls. And much too loudly.

I'm just lucky that my sister and Ian's brother are apparently having an argument. They don't hear us, so I push Ian back outside and shut the door in his confused face. My back against the door, I ignore Ian's muffled cussing and listen in on Mandy and Lip. If I were a praying kind of person, I'd beg whatever is out there to get them out of here fast, before Ian's drunk ass walks through the other door and gives us away.

"Go on then!" I hear my sister screech. At this point, only dolphins can hear her.

"I don't see why you're overreacting!" Lip says, heated. "We never said we were together!"

"Fuck you, you insensitive asshole!" Mandy bellows and the sound of her slapping him resonates through the otherwise quiet house. "If she's better than me, then go have fun with her! But if you whore comes to you crying that I busted her spleen, don't think for a second I'll apologize and won't pay you the same favor!"

I listen for the kitchen door to slam. And then Mandy's crying at the table after she scoots out a chair. From where I'm standing, I can see her back. She's stooped over, hands in her hair. My sister's a real hard ass. It takes more for her to cry than it does for me to. So I know she's upset for real over this. It makes my blood boil. I can't bear hearing Mandy in tears.

Philip Gallagher is a dead man.

* * *

**NOTE:** Thanks for all the positive feedback, guys! I was worried about telling this in first person point of view, but I'm glad I did.


	9. Make it Snappy

Drabble Nine : Make it Snappy

Mandy takes Civics with Ian. I think she doesn't know he's a raging faggot. Rightly so, being as Ian doesn't want out of the closet just yet. Not anymore than I do. Even the white house says it's okay to take it up the ass, but in this neighborhood, people see things a little differently. In most neighborhoods I've lived in, that has been the case. I can hold my own in a fight, but not when a handful of homophobes with baseball bats come into question. And I like my kneecaps. So does Ian. He's almost as good at hiding it as I am. But with Ian, I can see his need to throw his hands up and admit his preference out of a blow horn. Not because he wants to get his ass handed to him, but because he is fed up with stifling himself for the sake of some biggot's peace of mind And don't get me wrong, I agree with Ian. But that doesn't change where I come from. Doesn't change my own personal circumstance.

So Mandy has the hots for my fuck buddy and Ian seems blatantly oblivious. This all started after Lip screwed around with the blonde chick one street down and pissed Mandy off. My sister is blood thirsty for revenge. I guess she thinks sleeping with Lip's brother will make him jealous.

They are studying together on my sofa when I come home from my visit with Reba. My check in. Bitch wants to make sure I'm staying on track. No drugs. No alcohol. No stealing. No fights. I've failed at everything but she's clueless to the fact. Even gave me a fun-sized snickers as my reward. My own personal Scooby Snack.

Walking into the living room, I'm careful not to give away my annoyance. Mandy's bare legs draped over Ian's knees while he reads over notes from their class. She's twirling her gum and leering at him just when she notices me. Mandy rolls her eyes and says, "Thought you were out for the day, assface?"

Pulling off my t-shirt and straightening out the tank top I have on underneath, I go, "What are two you douchebags doing?" Just going to ignore her question and act natural. So I throw my two week dirty shirt on her face.

Mandy screams and throws it in the floor, livid. "God," she starts in, "you're such a pig!"

Laughing, I pick it back up on my way into my room. I didn't miss the amused smirk on Ian's face. And not ten minutes later I hear clanging in the kitchen, Mandy barking about pizza bagels, and footsteps edging to my closed door.

Ian and I, we have this quickie thing down pacted. Snap on a condom, lube up, fuck fast, and he's out of my room. Hair askew, face flushed, and droopy eyed. Ian always looks sleepy and drunk after he's on me. Me, I'm quick to recover. You'd never know I was just taking one for the team.

Mandy isn't at all suspicious when I saunter out and plop down beside them.


	10. Fake It

Drabbles Ten : Fake It

A little after noon Saturday morning, Mandy walks into the Kash and Grab and goes for it. I wasn't there, this is just what Ian told me under the El yesterday. Apparently my sister thought it was a good way to seduce a man, locking the door, turning the sign, and striking while Ian was in the floor, counting cigarettes. He'd thrown her off. Naturally, Mandy takes to rejection about as well as I do. So to stop her from kicking his guts out, Ian told Mandy he's gay. Let her cup his junk just to prove it.

So I guess they're best friends now. Faking dating at school. Ian, he tells me this stuff while I'm pulling off my jagged toenails without clippers and resting my bare back against the wall of a brokedown van in the Gallagher back yard. Coated in sweat and remnants of cum. My boxers are on backward and I only just realized. "She'll get attached anyway," I tell him. "You'll see, " I say, pulling off another piece of toenail. "And I'll have to kick your ass if you break her heart, you know, to keep with our image here."

He snorts. A grin creeps across his face. "Don't be stupid," he tells me and lights the joint he'd been rolling.

I stare at him I don't say what I'm thinking. But I know my sister. Secretly, she's super sensitive. Too clingy. Mandy will fall in love with Ian and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. Unless he wants to fall in love with her too. In which case, fuck the both of them. This whole situation is fucked. I wish I hadn't gotten myself trapped in it.


	11. Family Ties

Drabble Eleven : Family Ties

Besides Mandy, I have four other siblings. One is dead. So really, more like three. Two brothers and third one that my dad gave up to the boy's mother before any of the rest of us came along. I've never met him. Terry says the boy's name was David. He'd been almost thirty now. The dead one died during birth. Iggy, who right now is serving ten years in jail over assaulting his fiancee with a loaded gun. Among other things. Which include, but are not limited to: armed robbery, public indecency, assaulting an officer, and forging documents for an illegal immigrant whom Iggy was cheating on Abby with. And then there is Colin. I only just met him when I moved in with Sandra. Colin's almost thirty. He lives here with Sandra, Mandy, and myself. But only about one day out of an entire week. For the rest of it, he lives with a blonde bimbo he's fucking. Out of my siblings, Mandy and I are the only two who share the same mother.

I like Iggy just fine. He's two years older than me and lived with me, Terry, and Mandy for two years before he almost killed Abby and got shipped off. Colin, I can't stand. He reminds me so much of our father that it's frightening. It's rare that I'm intimidated, but Colin does the trick. I tend to withdraw into myself and just go along with him a lot of the times. Which isn't often because thankfully he's hardly around. Today though, he's around plenty.

Snorting up some coke from his pinky finger, my brother tips his head back and sighs, content. Arms stretched out behind him, eyes closed to the ceiling. "Sandra home?" he asks, tired sounding.

I shove the last of my sandwich into my mouth from in front of the television. While chewing I tell him she's down at the welfare office. "Probably clawing her arms off, tweaking," I say, shaking the crumbs off my shirt.

"No doubt," Colin chuckles. "You got an idea where her damn bag's at?" he asks me, still relaxing. "Bitch went and stashed it."

First off, it's not his bag to dig around in. Second off, every time Colin swipes something off of Sandra, she assumes it was me and sets off.

Sandra didn't hide her black bag from my brother; I did.

I shake my head and sit on top of the box television. Sandra's sold most of her other seating for drugs. "What are you here on a Tuesday for?" I ask him, chewing my lip out of a nervous habit. One of those where I'm plenty aware I'm doing it.

Colin's eyes pierce through me now. He sits up straight and cups his hands. Intense, he says, "What are you doing today?"

If I say I'm busy, he'll just get crazy If i say nothing, he's going to ask me for fuck knows what favor. I can't afford to get involved in anything serious. Exhaling, I stare back and say nothing until he spits it out.

"I need your help with a pest problem," Colin eventually says, cracking his tatted up knuckles. The same letters as my own. His hello gift to me. Now I'm starting to wish they weren't on my hands. When all I do is hum at him, face guarded, Colin tells me I'll need a gun. Says, "Meet me at Lori's 'round eight tonight. We'll go over it." And he stands up and appears to shit out a pistol. Just nods and leaves. Standing in the opened door, he looks back at me and says, "You see that bag, put it back under the couch where I can find it."

Then Colin's gone. And now it's just me and the pistol and staring contest.


	12. Fuck Up and Get Fucked

Drabble Twelve : Fuck Up and Get Fucked

"Why don't you think before you just do things?" Ian's yapping, sarcastic, face puckered while he looms at me over the counter. And he's right about everything, almost, when he tells me that Reba will probably find out. That the cops will find out. That I'll rot if, he's right. I won't rot. I'll just be in jail for a year or so. But yeah, someone will eventually find out. The thing is if the crime can be traced back to me.

I'm not a rat, but I also don't love Colin enough to cover for him. If someone does find out, I'll lawyer up and take a deal in a blink.

What is actually a major concern here, what Ian doesn't realize, is that Colin fucked up last night. Because of his mistake, these pests we were supposed to take care of know where we live. More specifically, where I live. And I'm far more worried about drug thugs than I am the police. I can handle stints in lock up, have before. Getting shot full of bullets, however, is an entirely new and unwanted experience. I don't mention any of that to Ian. He'd just freak out. Tell me to go to the police. To move quick. Get sappy on me.

While he's staring me down disapprovingly, I slurp on a slushie. Biting down on the straw, I lie, "Calm your tits, ginger boy," I say, "It's fine. I'm fine. Nothing is fucked here." After a brief pause, my nose buried in a magazine, I grin around the straw and look up from to corner of my eye. Meeting his gaze, I probe, "Unless you want something here to be fucked."

Ian rolls his eyes, but smiles nonetheless. He looks behind him at the clock, then back to me. "It's time for a break, anyway," Ian says, mood lifted, and pushes away from the counter with new found confidence. Struts over to the door and locks it.


	13. Eat

Drabble Thirteen : Eat

When I'm in a bad mood, Mandy thinks it's cute to turn her stereo up full blast and tease me constantly about being a grump. So I broke her fucking stereo and now she's outside throwing a bitch fit while she picks up the pieces. Sandra stirred during the commotion. Before the stereo, after the ambulance. She is making herself a sandwich on a hotdog bun just when Mandy storms in and kicks me in the balls. I fall forward off the couch, groaning and cussing her. She grabs her purse off the coffee table and tells me she hopes she ruined all my chances of procreating. Boy is she way off.

After Mandy's left the house, I'm left with Sandra sitting down on the couch over top of my fallen form. She turns on the television without acknowledging me. Loudly eats her sandwich. Crawling out, groin still throbbing, I say to the floor, "Don't fucking mind me, then."

As if she'd only just seen me, and maybe she had, Sandra pops her eyes at me and says through a full mouth, "Oh, Mickey. Why are you laying on the floor? We never sweep."

Rolling my eyes, I stand up and dust off my clothes and arms.

Sandra says to me, "You're blocking the tube, kid."

"Are you gonna actually be awake today?" I ask, snippy, hands on my hips while I stare her down. Not moving. Because fuck her. She fell asleep in my bed last night and I had to sleep on the goddamned couch. Because some passed out idiot was hauled up in Sandra's bed. And this morning I had to call an ambulance because the asshole stranger overdosed when nobody was looking. I think he was Sandra's friend but she doesn't seem too upset. Then again, she's sober.

She flaps her sandwich at me. "I have to run some errands," she says, meaning she's out of dope.

Glad to hear I'm alone once she leaves, I go to the kitchen for some leftover sandwich supplies. If there are any.

"Oh and, Mickey!" Sandra's voice pierces my skull. I realize there is nothing left in this place to eat. At all. And she says, "What happened to grocery shopping?"

I grip the countertop, grounding myself so that I don't haul off and beat hell out of Sandra. She's eat through the entire bag of bread, hot dogs buns, and all of the ham and cheese I stole from work. In one night. Finished it off selfishly this morning. Grocery shopping? I'd like to know with what. I make barely five hundred dollars a month, and Sandra steals most of that for her drugs. Leaves me with about a single hundred if I'm lucky. Half of which I give to Mandy so she can eat at school. I'm running out of hiding places for my cash.

Like a bomb, I explode and trash the kitchen. All Sandra does is turn up the television. After the damage is done, I stomp over to the wall phone and dial up one of the only numbers I know off hand. I've never actually called it, though. Not exactly certain if I should now. But it's too late because someone already answered. Honestly, I would have hung up if the person answering on the other line had been anyone else.

When Ian says hello for a second time, I breathe. "Your people home?" is the first thing I say.

And he's shocked, I can tell because his end goes quiet. Finally he says, "No. Well, except my kid brother. But he's asleep in his crib."

That'll do. I hang up without responding. He's likely confused. Still is when I knock on his door. Still is when I barge into Ian's kitchen and help myself to his fridge. Staring at me with a kitted brown, Ian crosses his arms and says, sarcastic, "No, please, help yourself."

"I am," I say, cramming crackers into my mouth and gluging some milk. "You've got plenty," I say, grabbing a handful of cereal out of the opened box on the table.

"Not really," Ian gripes, snatching up the box and putting it in the cabinets. He shuts the fridge, since I've failed to do so. "Seven people live here," he tells me, "Eight if you count the times when Frank is actually around." He watches me finish off their milk and wipe my mouth with the back of my wrist. Sighing, Ian asks, "Don't you have food at your house?" He's not serious. He thinks he's being sarcastic. Rolls his eyes. Think's I'm just being a dick right now.

Fucking not about to let him think otherwise, I step up to him and back him into the fridge. Some magnets fall off. With him staring at me until he's almost cross-eyed, I go, "Yours tastes better. Now," I look him up and down, "you want to chit chat more, or do you wanna get on me?"


	14. Me Then You

Drabble Fourteen : Me then You

I don't know how he's talked me into this. A Milkovich sharing his life stories freely? Unheard of. Yet here I am, cross legged in my boxers, passing a cigarette back and forth in Ian's broken down van. He's across from me, same get-up, hair mussed up, relaxed as he takes a long drag and breathes it out slowly.

"How's this work?" I ask, grumpy. I ought to leave before this goes to a place I'm uncomfortable with, so why ain't I?

Giving me back the cigarette, Ian says, "I tell you something about my life, then it's your turn to follow up with something along the same ball park. But it doesn't have to be something serious if you don't want."

"Tell me again why we're doing this?" I ask him, popping my lower back and wincing.

"Aren't you curious?" Ian asks, awkward.

I am, but no way am I saying that gay shit. Instead, I say, "Your life is an open book, Gallagher."

"Well yours isn't," he tells me.

I'm in that van at least an hour before the inevitable happens. Somewhere between laying back with the trunk of the van opened, staring up at the blue sky and clouds; somewhere after Ian tells me he once fucked his old boss, Kash; somewhere after I tell him I've only fucked girls until now; somewhere between Ian's, "My real dad has three other kids. Which means I have more siblings I've never met," and my, "My dad's doing time for drug trafficking and document forgery," Ian's rolled over and covered my face with his own. Both of us sober. Covered in my sweat and Ian's, I lay there, stunned for a split second. Confused and hazy. My eyes are wide open and his aren't. His lips are soft and loose. Mine are chapped and tight. It happens fast. His hand slides down my neck and rests on my collar bone. And then it's over.

No really. I don't say anything much afte. I leave pretty quick. Really. Not just this kiss is over. This, whatever the fuck it was, is over.


	15. Now or Never

Drabble Fifteen : Now or Never

We haven't said more than hello to each other. And actually, I haven't even said that. Ian's feelings are hurt by my withdrawal. Given that I haven't even explained myself, that's understandable. Honestly, I don't want to explain myself. This is his fucking fault, anyway. If he had just stuck with the plan. If he hadn't gone and fucked it up by kissing me. I'd warned him once of the repercussions of that. Still he had to test the waters. So, it's done. But finding the time to break it to him that is proving impossible.

Today of all days, the store is slammed with morons. Back to back. Probably it has a lot to do with the lottery tickets Linda thinks are a brilliant idea. Brilliant for her cash intake. Hell on employees. Ian looks about to kill over behind the register. I'm standing near the cooler, pretending to stock soda. From here, I have a great earfull of what the fat bitch is screaming in Ian's petrified face.

"What's wrong with you?" she barks. "I'm in here all the time. I'm a prefered customer," she says. "That's false advertising, and I want to speak with your boss!"

And while I have no idea what she's talking about, I already know she's full of shit. I've never seen her before today. And besides, Linda isn't here.

Pissed off at Ian or not, I love a good opportunity. Shoving to my feet, I dust off my knees, sort of, and stomp over beside of Ian. "Let me hear it," I say, not letting on one way or the other if I'm the so called boss. Hoping she takes the bait.

She does. Pointing at Ian, her stub of a finger practically up his nose, she goes, "I want him fired!"

"No," I say. "And I don't like your attitude." After that, she's huffing mad. Good. "What's false advertised?" I ask, brows arched, lips puckers, snide.

The bitch hold up a bag of cotton balls. By now there is a huge line. Some people have already left. She wags the cotton. "The sign says," she drag out in a thick southern accent, "fifty percent off. I ain't paying what he's telling me. Says half!" she declares.

I've taken off the security jacket Linda insists on me wearing because it's hot as balls in here. It's a good thing I've done that. Otherwise the bitch would know who to complain about. And Linda's already hired another kid fresh out of the pen. One who sort of looks like me. So if what I'm about to do gets back to Linda, I'll just blame Ralph. Even though I probably won't be here after today. No reservations, I laugh. "It's buy one get it the other half," I correct. Already she's interrupted me, wagging her face and rolling her eyes. I stop her fast. Ian's looking at me like I have two heads. People are starting to gripe. "You just don't know how to fucking read," I tell her. "You buying it or not?"

Next thing I know, there is a bag of cotton hitting me in the face. With the bitch gone, I step away and leave the line of disgruntled customers to Ian. After her, though, it's just the usual.

Once everything dies down, I set my eyes of Ian. Ian, who is practically collapsed on the countertop, hands through his hair, eyes drooping. He blows at his bangs when our eye meet. Annoyed, he tells me, "Gee thanks for all your help." He's being sarcastic. I did help, but no so far as he is concerned.

Wetting my lip, I pick up my jacket from the floor beside me and walk over. I sit the jacket on the counter. Actually, I slam my hand on it and stare threateningly. Daring him to oppose me. "Pop the till," I demand.

Ian furrows his brow. "What?" he asks, shocked. "What are you doing?"

"Open the goddamned drawer, Ian," I snap. "Hand me two bills. That should cover my owed paycheck. I quit."

Alert now, Ian stands up straight. Owleyed and slack jaw, he shakes his head, confused. "It was just an off day, Mickey! Don't overreact," he starts in. Panicked already.

I shake my head and lick my bottom lip. Suck the spit back off fast. Wipe at the crook of my mouth. "I'm done," I say, animated as I cut the air with a tight hand. "This isn't about today. That shit yesterday," I begin, glaring, "you took it to far. I can't do this."

He hurries out from behind the register. Hand on his hip. Panic stricken still, but determined. It would be endearing if I weren't also panicking and defensive. I realize immediately that maybe I'm being rash. But it's too late because I don't go back on my words ever. And now that the ball is in motion, my guts along with it, what's done is done.

"You can't!" Ian says, "I don't want you to. . ."

Like that will solve it.

Oh, Ian's unhappy. Nevermind then. "That ain't how this works," I say. Partly to my own thought and mostly to him, though. Fast, I go to the drawer and open it. Pull out about two hundred and thirty bucks. Stuffing the money in my pocket, I go, "I don't know what you thought this was, but it's not." Snorting, I step in front of his hurting face. He's eight inches taller than me, so I have to look up. I'm smiling, but it's more out of having no idea what else to do at this point. "What, do you think we're boyfriend and girlfriend here?" I bite. "You're nothing but a warm mouth to me!" I look away from his watery eyes and rub my nose. Walk away and open the door. Before leaving completely, I add, "You come near me again, I'll crack your skull."

I don't look back at him. I can't take any of it back. I'm not sure if I want to. Maybe just a little. Too late now. The door swings shut and I speed walk away.

Holy shit. My chest really hurts. I vomit before I make it home.

* * *

**NOTE: **Longest one yet! I had to battle with the chapter because I actually hate it. But it is what it is. Whatever. Now I can get to the core of this thing. Onward!


	16. Stew

Drabble Sixteen : Stew

The Kash and Grab is part of my past not quite a week before school kicks back in for Ian Gallagher and my sister Mandy. I'm out of work and Reba found out despite my efforts to put that off. Now, to not get thrown back in jail I have to prove I'm applying for at least two jobs a day. Aside from the weekends. Otherwise, I breach my probation. So far, I've applied to nothing but fast-food joints. I'm not really keen on getting a limb hacked off at meat packing plants. Which are pretty much what this town is made up of. And it's likely no where else around here is trusting enough to take me in.

Today I'm not going out and applying for shit because I think I deserve a break. I've been at applying religiously. Tomorrow's Saturday and I don't think one day extra will send Reba flying. Besides, bitch thinks I'm at an interview right now with McDonalds.

What I'm actually doing is smoking an entire blunt by myself while watching reruns of Family Guy and sipping on beer. Sacked out in my boxers on the sofa, stewing in my own three days worth of filth. With no one's head getting near my junk now, I don't really see the need to clean up regularly.

This is both a relief and a travesty.

I woke up last night, boxers and sheet wet with cum, feeling a sense of regret. I don't remember what I dreamed, but I think it had something to do with red and the national anthem. Clearly my subconscious misses soldier-boy, Ian, sucking me off.

Staring at the blunt in my hand, I study how loosely I rolled it. Not on purpose. It's not like I'm shit at rolling, just that Ian was better. For him, it was like a work of art. There was never any blowback when Ian rolled. Now I keep having to spit out leftovers.

There a bitter taste in my mouth that's been there since before this botched blunt.


	17. Blow You Away

Drabble Seventeen : Blow You Away

What Ian said about the mistake I made with Colin, he was right. Someone did find out. My aunt. Now, Sandra, she's not a threat. The guy holding her at gunpoint, though, is most definitely a threat. Me, my arms up in the air, eyes wide, breathing erratic, I say to the home invader, "Just let her go. She ain't got shit to do with this." And as I say this, I spot the back door sliding open.

Thankfully, Mandy had Lip oil the hinges before they broke off their fling. Had him oil those so that he could sneak in at nights without my knowing. Today, this is to my advantage and not Mandy's. Because there's my brother, staring at this scene through the crack in the kitchen door. And here I am, making eye contact without giving anything away. Hoping that Colin doesn't just bolt. He could save me right now, no problem.

I dare to look away from Colin and back at the large black gang-banger holding Sandra by her oily hair. "I don't have your money, dude," I say. "It ain't even in this house."

He chuckles mirthlessly and shakes his bald head, takes the hand holding his gun away from Sandra's temple long enough to point it at me. "Well I kinda figured you and your brother spent it," he says. "I'm sure you can make up for it," he snorts, looking me over.

What he's thinking, I don't know.

Right now, Colin is creeping in and not bothering to shut the door behind him. I might dislike my half sibling, but he's going to help, so I'm grateful for him just this once. He's gripping the tire iron that was leaned against our fridge, holding the door closed so the meager amount of food won't spoil.

"Look," I say, hands out in surrender still, "I don't have _any _money."

He looks down at Sandra and jerks her head around for a second, enjoying the sounds of her cries in pain. Then looks back at me. "You ever watch that show, The Shield?" he asks me, smirking. I tell him I don't see what television has to do with anything that's happening in my living room. He laughs again, says, "I'm thinking you'd make a great Aceveda."

Whatever that means. I don't know exactly. However, there is really only one possible scenario that I'm seeing. I mean, it doesn't take much to understand he's trying to get at forcing me to blow him. Guy's already rocking a stiffy. Probably he's only doing this just for kicks, and then he'll finish shooting me and Sandra. I could kill Colin for this, if he weren't right behind the guy, tire iron raised, teeth bared.

Sandra whimpers, I meet eyes with Colin, and the guy, he notices my gaze. Turns his head. His eyes go wide, he drops Sandra, and tries to aim his gun at Colin. But the iron has already connected with his skull.

With my aunt in the floor, a mass of snot and tears, shaking, and Colin already ranting with his hands through his hair about disposing of the body, I pick my cigarette up from the floor. Where'd I'd dropped it upon leaving my room to find this whole fiasco taking place. It's still burning.

Taking a drag, I sigh down at Sandra. I go to pick her up.

"Damn," Colin stops to laugh, looking down at the body, "wouldn't have pegged Scrappy for a yo-yo. Guess he had this one coming then. Fucking faggat."


	18. Working Man

Drabble Eighteen : Working Man

Three hours after I helped Colin dump that attacker's body on the El tracks; after I tagged the body to make it look like a gang related killing; after Mandy returned home from school, some fuel station called me up to let me know when I could pick up a name tag and collect an employee payment card.

So I work for some mom and pop gas station now. Have been for barely a week. It's not much different than the Kash and Grab, only smaller. And now I am the one standing at a register all day, taking people's shit. Fortunately for my sanity, sad for my wallet, the job is only part time. And today, we were robbed and I got sent home early. Was thanked profusely by the owner for taking matters into my own hands.

What I did was bash the robbers head into the register. What I get for this is a raise. So win-win for everybody but the dead guy and Pablo's new flooring.

Truth is, I've never killed a man. Until now. The men in my family, it's pretty much their line of work. It's what my dad always bragged about. Me, up until today, I've only watched. I've only helped dump a man on train tracks.

So yeah, I'm a little shook up, despite my tough guy act in front of the police and Pablo.

All I want is a cold beer, hell even a warm one. And to crash. To dream about something and try and forget this day even happened. Getting my brains fucked out would cure this. Too bad I'm solo.

I go in through the kitchen because it's the closest to my first goal. My hand on the knob is pink. I scrubbed my hands, but the water pressure at Pablo's is shit. So the blood is still on me. I plan on washing that off first.

Unfortunately, plans aren't really going my way ever lately.

When I walk inside, ready for the sink and my beer, I freeze. Frowning into the living room, where Mandy has my sort-of ex pinned against the far wall. She's giving him a toothy grin, hands up under his shirt. Ian, he looks confused and nervous. My first thought is, I told him this would happen. My second thought is that I really don't want to see him right now or ever. Only after those do I take a second to contemplate my needed reaction.

"You never know," Mandy tells Ian, her painted lips close to his ear, "you might like it."

Ian laughs nervously, grabs Mandy by her thin biceps and gently eases her back. He shakes his head. "No way, Mandy," he says. "I thought you were kidding," he says. He lets her go and rubs a hand through his hair and across the back of his neck. "I love you and," he goes, "you're my girlfriend. But you know-"

She rolls her eyes, smirking still and drops back against him in a hug, cutting off his words. "Fine," she breathes out. "One day," she says, as of this were only a test, a game, "I'll win you over."

Mellow now, convinced that my sister is over it, Ian hugs her back and kisses the top of her hair. "So about ROTC camp," he starts in as she pulls back and goes toward the sofa. "I'm leaving right after Thanksgiving," he says and my heart skips.


	19. Slip

Drabble Nineteen : Slip

Even though I don't speak to him. Even though when Mandy brings him home, I hide out in my room. Even though Ian Gallagher is out of my personal life for the most part. Still I've been keeping a count down for his departure. He'll only be gone for the rest of this school year, Mandy tells me over our stolen Thanksgiving dinner. The camp Ian is going to will prepare him for the career he wants in the Army. They'll teach Ian all of the skills he needs to be a commander, plus regular subjects. She can't wait for him to come back. I should at least say goodbye, she claims.

"Weren't you two kind of friends at some point?" she asks me with her mouth full of turkey. "When you worked together?" she continues, pulling apart the piece of turkey that's dangling against her chin. She wipes away the left behind gravy.

Beside of me, Sandra is asleep at the table. The stuff she shot up earlier has put her lights out for the rest of the night. I honestly don't know how I allowed Mandy to talk me into this ridiculous tradition. Thanksgiving. I don't see what the fuck we have to be thankful for. Our father is in prison, maybe for life this time. Our mother is dead. Our acceptable brother is locked up. We live with a junkie. We're broke. There are gang members who want me and Colin dead. The heat is out in this shit hole. This food sucks. Thinking all of this, I keep it to myself. Instead, I take a bite of the awful corn and say, "Can't be friends with a faggot."

Immediately I want to swallow my words.

At first, Mandy doesn't take in the meaning of what I just said. She shrugs, and slurps up some cranberry sauce. Hair in her face, she goes, "That why you quit?" But as on second thought, she blinks, sits down her fork, and looks at me oddly. "Wait, Ian told you he's gay?" she asks, stunned.

By my own personal stereo type, Mandy is likely wondering a few things. One being, if I knew Ian is gay, why haven't I bullied him. Why am I being so nonchalant about homosexuality? Surely I didn't spare Ian because of Mandy? I mean, me being me, shouldn't I have, by Milkovich law, gone and beat the shit out of him for lying to Mandy? I know she's thinking this. I can see it written all over her scrunched up face.

Already I want to slap myself for starting this ball rolling. I only hope Mandy will drop the subject and not take this in question to Ian.


	20. Things that Happened

Drabble Twenty : Things that Happened

"You're a goddamned fairy?" my brother's voice booms from the kitchen walkway. Neither me or Mandy had heard him come in. Because of those oiled up hinges. He's obviously disgusted and furious. I have never seen Colin like this since my living here. In fact, I've only ever seen that look once before. The day my father was wearing it when he barged into my mother's hotel room years ago. And if what happened between Terry and my mother is any indication to what happens because of such rage, I should probably run for it.

"Colin!" Mandy blurts, here eyes wide, the fist she had balled up at me has fallen loose by her hip. She's stunned now, when only seconds ago, she'd been screaming at me over fucking her boyfriend.

My Thanksgiving wish hadn't come true. Apparently Mandy cornered Ian about my knowledge just before he left Chicago. And of course he fessed up. To everything. Even the breakup. Still, Mandy is furious that I was involved with what she believes to be hers. It doesn't matter that we're over, Ian and I. Now though, I'm guessing Mandy begging Colin to not hurt me is some kind of regret. Bet she wishes she wouldn't have yelled at me now.

Colin doesn't given her any thought. He comes toward me like a bullet.

Those hinges though. Curse Lip for oiling them. At the same time, thank fucking Christ that Lip Gallagher oiled those hinges. Just like thank Christ that Lip is sneaking into my house right now, probably after Mandy's forgiveness finally. He's standing in the walkway now, taken aback.

"Do something!" Mandy bellows to Lip while Colin and I wrestle on the floor. "Help!" she screams, angry.

And Lip, the Gallagher that he is, starts breaking anything he can get his hands on. He first knocks over the coffee table, then grabs for a picture hanging crooked on the wall. Smashes things. Starts screaming like a mad man. Kicks a hole in our wall. Meanwhile, Colin has already done me a lot of damage. I'm a damn good fighter. A bully. A thug. A prick. But Colin is crazed and retard strong.

My brother gets off of me, angry at Lip for interrupting, and goes for his next victim. moments later, blue and red lights fill my house.

Somebody called the cops.

* * *

**NOTE: **And now this story has come full circle. It's still has a while to go though, so no worries.

Sorry it took me so long to update recently. I'm actually sick right now. The doctor's can't figure out what's going on with me. I'm on antibiotics and lots of muscle relaxers. I've got to go in for some testing after xmas, so wish me luck. Life is kinda sucky right now. Just one thing after another.

Anyway, hopefully all these new chapters have made up for my absence!


	21. Bedside Manner

Drabble Twenty-One : Bedside Manner

I wake up in the hospital, laid out with a drip plugged into my left arm, feeding me fluids. Nothing's casted. But I'm really sore and I can feel stitches in my mouth and a bandage around my forehead. Slowly, I turn my head to the side and blink my eyes into focus. The motion causes a horrible headache.

Beside of my bed, Mandy is curled up in some uncomfortable looking recliner, a hospital blanket wrapped around her. She's fast asleep. The clock on the nightstand behind her tells me it's barely past six in the afternoon. Mandy's school bag is at her feet.

I groan and raise my right hands to touch my bruised and swollen face. It hurts, so I stop and pull my hand back. My knuckles are banged up from fighting back. I study the scabs and deep colors. So dark I can barely make out the words printed there. My shoulder is practically on fire from this action, so I lower my limb. Sighing, I stare at Mandy again.


	22. Thanks, I Guess

Drabble Twenty-Two : Thanks, I Guess

Two days after my release, and my revisit with the doctor says it's cool that I walk around normally. The concussion is over and I should be fine. Still, the doc told me, no trauma to my head. Not even a little bit. My guess is, the good doctor could tell by my knuckles I'm one for stirring shit up. Little does she know, not lately.

My first day back to work is long and boring. Sunday morning and most everyone is at church becoming one with their savior. Me, I'm watching the clock, waiting to march a few blocks from my house and thank mine. Truth is, I haven't see Lip Gallagher since the cops burst into my house and arrested both him and Colin.

Mandy told me what had happened over my hospital lunch the third day in. No one called the police. As it turns out, the police were coming to hunt down Colin for grand theft auto and suspicion of murder. Lip was released after the police drilled him on his part in my beating. Him and Mandy are back together. It's her idea that I go and thank Lip for helping me not to die. A few minutes more and Colin might have done some serious damage.

Normally I would tell Mandy to fuck off. Say that I didn't ask or need his help. But the truth is, I did need it whether or not is was asked for.

So after I clock out and the owner comes in to take over second shift, I'm boarding the El. I get off near the Gallagher house, planning to walk home the rest of the way. After my stop off.

Their front yard and sidewalk is wrecked with snow, trash, and toys. A busted up pool and a few cars that are in pieces. Going through the unhinged gate, I stand there for a few minutes, listening to the sound of children fighting inside. And I make to leave. Because fuck all that. I ain't dealing with kids. Lip can wait. But before I make it back out of the gate, something hits me square in the back of my shoulder. Fast. It doesn't hurt. I reach behind me and rub where the hit was. Spin around. On the ground by my feet is a Nurf dart. Furrowing my brow, I look toward the Gallagher front door. Standing on the steps is some punk ten year old cackling and ready to shoot again.

My eyes bug and I start walking toward the door. Sprinting, actually. The kid, his eyes go wide and he hurries to get back inside. Slams the door in my face right as I reach for him, having leaped the stairs. I ready to barge in, just when the door opens back up. Still glaring like a lunatic, I look down, into the face of the female version of Ian Gallagher.

She's maybe twelve. Her hair is in a curly ponytail. Covered in freckles and pink cheeks. And she's wearing a huge black coat that can't possibly belong to her. She looks back up at me, lips pursed, then turns her head, angry, and scream, "Carl! What did you do?" She looks back at me and puts her fists on her hips. Sassy and authoritative. "Sorry if he kicked your dog, keyed your car, peed on your stoop," she goes, rattling off handfuls of obscene shit that I assume this Carl kis is usually guilty for, "Threw cat turds at your house, prank called you saying that your family is in danger, sent the pizza delivery guy to your house with ten boxes that you were forced to pay for, or stole your bike. Does that cover it?" she asks me, serious. "Was it one of those?" she presses.

In awe of what a nuisance this kid must be, I scowl. I growl, "Send the little shit out here." I peer inside, at all the smaller children running around. The living room looks like a damned daycare.

From somewhere upstairs a voice floats down, telling Debbie to threaten calling the police. The voice is Lip's. He sounds groggy and sick.

The little girl looks from the stairs behind her and then at me. She sighs, all business and informs me that, "I don't want to have to call the cops. But I will."

I roll my eyes and shove past her, into the house. Carl forgotten at this point. "Philip Gallagher!" I yell up the stairs. "Your brother," I sing song, "is about to get my foot up his ass in five, four, three. . ." I make it to one just as Lip sores downstairs, in panic. When he reaches the post, I've told the girl to scram, that I'm not really here for her dick head kid-brother. "But," I say to her while Lip watches me curiously, "tell Carl, he shoots another Nurf at my back and I'll make him cry for mommy." She smiles at me and laughingly calls for Carl while walking away.

Lip snorts, crosses his arms over her bare chest, and nobs upward at me when I turn back around. He's covered in bruises and his nose has been busted. I know this damage isn't from his fight with Colin. I also know Lip likes to start shit just as much as I do, but usually for different reasons. And I don't bother mentioning any of my sightings. I thumb my lip and ask, "You got five minutes?"

"What's up?" he asks me, as if he doesn't know what this is about. I got no other reason to be in this house now that Ian and I are done. "Make it fast," he jokes. "The parents come to pick their kids up in less than an hour," he tells me, pointing to the daycare being ran in his home. He says, "I don't want someone seeing the neighborhood thug in here and think he babysits their children."

Smirking I arch my brows and go, "This your idea of a day job, changing diapers?"

"It's my idea of feeding this household," Lip clears his throat. "Debbie handles the daycare now that," and he stops. Shake his head. "You were going to thank me?" he leads. Obviously Mandy tipped him off that I might come by. "Grovel at my feet, feed me grapes," Lip says, cocky and full of himself.

"You want I should kiss your ass while I'm down there," I snap, kind of harsh, but not completely serious.

"I don't know," Lip says, "I figure my brother might get jealous."

And fuck my sister for telling all. It's bad enough actually being a closeted faggat. Now the cat's out of the bag to too many people for my comfort.


	23. Sibling Bonding

Drabble Twenty-Three : Sibling Bonding

"Mandy," I groan, taking a huge bite of my sandwich and looking up at her grumpily, "I don't even given two fucks about cagefighting. And I'm busy."

My sister, she's standing in front of me while I'm stoop forward on the couch, trying to eat my dinner in sweatpants. I've been out of the hospital now for a little over a month. For New Years, Mandy wants me to get out of the house; do something besides work and come home to get smashed and argue with Sandra. I tell her somebody has to put food in our fridge, since she can't quit school.

"I can," she insinuates, hands in the pockets of her plaid skirt.

I roll my eyes and say, "Not gonna happen. One of us needs to survive life's fisting."

She sighs dramatically and kicks my shin. Yelling out, I drop my sandwich and grab at my now throbbing leg. Call her a bitch and start breathing in through my bared teeth like I just ate something spicy.

"Come with me," she goes, "or I'll do it again."

"Fucking cunt!" I snap. "If you didn't have tits, I'd smack the hell out of you for that!"

Laughing, Mandy plops down beside of me on the couch. She folds her hands in her lap and grins at my cockily. "Besides," she says, "it's not cagefighting." She asks me if I've ever watched Fight Club. Then says, "Lip has his own. Didn't Ian ever talk about it? It's actually pretty cool."

As much of a relief that it is not having to hide myself and my personal life from Mandy anymore, I can't stand her knowing about Ian and me. She brings him up now in everyday conversation. And every time I hear his name, my stomach aches. If it's because I regret my decision to ever fuck him or because I wish I hadn't stopped, I don't know.

I exhale slow and loud, rub my face and looks at her sideways, holding the bridge of my nose, mouth set into a frown. "Once," I say, "I'll go this once. But!" and I pinch her hard on the boob. She screams and jumps away, "back off me after this. I'm gay, not queer."

Mandy, she's been trying to bring me fucking shopping with her. Trying to watch chick flicks with me. Asking my opinion on shoes, even. And now she's dragging me out for more sibling bonding. Her way of saying sorry for getting me beaten. At least this is something I might enjoy.


	24. Get it Out

Drabble Twenty-Four : Get it Out

This mock fight club takes place in the abandoned parking garage behind the old Billiards Place. In the really skeevy part of town. That way, no cops come in and bust it up. Mandy drags me toward the garage. I can see a faint light on in the lower level. We near the entrance. Already I'm curious. I remember Ian mentioning the fights once before, when he'd filled in for one of Lip's fighters. Apparently it's a paying gig. Lip splits his cash fifty-fifty with whoever fights for him that week. If they win, that is. Plus others take bets. Honestly, this seems like something right up my alley and I don't see why Ian never tried bringing me along. Except that maybe he thought I would say no.

At that time, maybe I would have.

"I hope Lip has Benny fighting tonight," Mandy mumbles. "I need some extra cash for those shoes at Dilliards," she says as if I'm paying attention.

Rather, I'm more interested in the lanky guy standing near a lit up column. We're practically there. From our standing point, I can see a crowd of guys in a circle, passing money about.

The lanky guy approaches us and reaches bravely out for my sister's shoulder. I'm walking a few steps behind her. When his hands connects with her jacket, Mandy spins around and shakes him off.

"Back off, Hough," she hisses.

First of all, his name pisses me off. Second, no one lays hands on my kid sister. And so I tell him that, venom seeping through every word. Back off, I warn. My doctor's request keeps spinning through my head. Take it easy, she told me. No violent behavior, she said. Well sorry, doc. I am who I am. Fighting is practically my only form of conflict resolution.

When Hough rolls his eyes and tells me to mind my own business, all bets are off. And I mean that literally. Whoever that crowd of people were betting on, they've changed their minds. Once my foot connects with Hough's knee and I knock him down for a go, we've collected an audience. Mandy backs off against Lip, who was probably the first to walk over. I wouldn't know, I'm too busy hitting Hough in the back while I get him in a choke hold, standing up now. He gets in a few hits. I spit a gob of blood and what might have been a back tooth. And, like a feral animal, I plow into Hough and knock him to his back. That's it. He's out like a light.

The crowd of people surrounding me goes nuts. Actually, they've been raving like crazed fools this entire time. Cheering for either me of Hough.

Panting, I ignore the attention and spit until my saliva is clear again. I wipe my mouth and look over at Lip. "Sorry I ruined your party," I say even though I'm not. I rotate my shoulder and think about how much better I feel now. I guess all I really needed to feel like myself again and less like a pinning lover, was to turn someone's lights off.

Lip, he grins and holds his hand up, yells for everyone to get lost, "Fighting's over everly," he says. "Surprise ending!" he laughs, then goes, "Be back next Saturday!" And then he proceeds to collect cash from various sore betters.

I lick my busted lip while watching two guys approach Lip with sour looks on their faces.

"Greg," Lip goes while reaching a hand out to shake the shorter guy's hand, "sorry there was a change in plans."

Things to note about Greg are: he's older than Lip and I, by maybe three years. He's scarred up and wears too much green. His bleached hair is a big contrast to his fake tanned skin.

The chump beside of Greg is Ian's height. He brushes past Lip. He says, without turning around, "This is some bullshit!"

About the chump, he looks kind of like how I would if my hair was dyed blue and I was cleaned up in skinny jeans and a flashy belt. If I were some Emo, wannabe badass.

"Calm down, Sidney boy," Greg bellows after his fighter, glaring hard at Lip. "You better not pull this shit next week," he threatens Lip. "I didn't come out just to have my guy shunned for some newbie," he says. "Hell," he growls, "I don't do this shit to miss out on my cut!"

Lip hold his hands up, still grinning, and goes, "I didn't know this was going to happen, Greg." He hands him part of the cash. "Maybe this will make up for it?" he suggests.

Greg takes the money, counts what must be two hundred dollars, and nods. "That's fine," he says. "See you Saturday," he says, then leaves. He brushes past me, stepping on Hough's hand during his passing.

Lip, he starts laughing and looks at Mandy. "What the hell just happened?" he laughs. "Did you plan this?" he asks.

I roll my eyes and step over Hough's sleeping form. While I walk over, Mandy shrugs. She says, "I figured I really needed from cash. I wasn't risking your not bringing in Benny."

"What?" I snap, scowling at my sister. I step between her and Lip. My head aches. I can still taste blood. "You brought me here so I'd start shit with someone and win you some side money?" I say. "What the fuck, Mandy!" I continue, "You know I ain't supposed to bang my head around."

She purses her face and waves me off. "Chill out," she says. "I didn't know for sure if it would work," she says.

"Fucking bitch," I yell in her face, ball up my fist, then punch the column to my right. To keep from bashing her head in, I shove past Lip to walk off and light a cigarette. I stand in the background smoking while Lip talks with Mandy. Eventually, he trots over to me.

While I'm fuming, Lip says, "Got a question for you."


	25. Partnership

Drabble Twenty-Five : Partnership

That question Lip asked me was if I was interested in earning more money knocking heads together than I make in two weeks at Pablo's. An extra two hundred bucks every week. That's eight, and put that with the five I make at Pablo's, leaves me at right around thirteen hundred dollars a month. But, that's only if I win every fight. And Lip and I both know the chances of that are in our favor. Even if I only win half, it's still a grand in my pocket every month. While that's not a lot of money to most people, that's way more than enough to cover food and cable in my life. Shit, with that, I might be able to get the fuck out of Sandra's once Mandy graduates. Save up.

So naturally, I say yes. Head trauma or not, I ain't passing up this opportunity.


	26. Great Investment

Drabble Twenty-Six : Great Investment

My first fight for Lip, I win it in a matter on five minutes. Who is usually a tough act to beat, I practically demolish. Every Saturday is like this for the next two months. I've only lost once. And when I'm done, Lip stands down. So does Greg. A few other fights take place. Strangers betting on strangers. Rage and pent up angst getting purged right before my eyes. I love it. And I'm great at making a bet, too. Lip lets me make the call nine times out of ten. Needless to say, we walk out of that garage splitting six hundred dollars between the two of us, weekly. Sometimes seven. The crowds are getting bigger.

Tonight, we leave after everyone has thinned out. It's past three in the morning. After my fight, Lip and I went out and swiped some beer. Came back and laid the rest of the matches out. We sat back, getting drunk and watching blood spray the walls.

The thing about Lip is, he has this fire in his gut that I can practically see burning a hole through him. There is a need in him for something he can't place. He's just like me and I'm pretty sure everyone has failed to realize this. Our differences are vast, but the similarities are kind of scary. Emotionally, Lip is like looking into a mirror.

Handing me my half of our earning, Lip pats my back, sucking on his cigarette with no hands, and mumbles, "This is the best investment I've ever made. My life," he goes, looking at me in drunken, mock longing, "would suck without you, Mick."

"Fuck off," I slur and shove him off of me.

He laughs and pockets his money. Hands me over his cigarette. We stand under the streetlight until we've smoked the cigarette down to nothing. Lip, he takes the last drag and grounds his out with his shoe.

"You busy tomorrow?" he asks me, one eye pinched shut and he starts scratching at it. "After work I mean," he says.

I shrug. "Gotta meet up with my probation skank," I tell him. "After that I'm freed up," I say.

"You uh," he starts lighting up another smoke, this time it's a joint, "feel like playing some Borderlands?"

"I ain't bringing the beers this time," I say, swiping the joint before he can take his fourth puff.


	27. Truck Stop

Drabble Twenty-Seven : Truck Stop

Lip tosses a ball against the boarded up window and takes another drag of his join before catching it as it bounces back. Me, I'm stretched out on my back across the roof of the truck we are currently camping out on, face aching along with my entire bruise up body. Under my feet, Lip is sitting relaxed, knees up, in the bed of this truck. His face looks as beaten as mine. With my arm dangling off the side, I stare up at the clouded over sky, grey and dreary, and say, "You think they fucking died in there?"

Sniffing hard, Lip reaches the joint up. I press my chin down, staring at the stub sticking up near my boot. Smirking, I kick it on purpose. I hear Lip spit a string of curses while he moves around, probably trying not to get burned.

Cackling, I smile up at the sky. "Idiot," I mumble.

And all is quiet for a few seconds, so I knit my brown, suspicious. Next thing I know, the Truck bows because Lip is getting down. By the time I roll onto my side, just barely, Lip has run around the truck and is throwing the burning joint at my chest.

"Sharing is caring!" Lip laughs while I yelp and dust it off me. And while he laughs, I spot our targets coming around the corner of this abandoned toy store.

Thing to note about these guys are; one's name is Greg and the other, Sidney. They played us. Now they're going to have their asses handed to them.

Lip grabs the tire iron while I roll off the truck and pick myself up. Me, my weapon of choice is a random brick from this rubbled up shop. We run after the duo, Me laughing out, "Hey, Sidney Boy! Catch!"

* * *

**NOTE: **Happy Holidays, guys!


	28. Scream it All Out

Drabble Twenty-Eight : Scream it All Out

By March, I've saved up seven grand. I can hardly believe it. Me, Mickey Milkovich, has managed to hang onto a steady pay. And to buy enough food that I've put some of my normal weight back on. Mandy hasn't, but that's because Mandy pukes everything back up on purpose. Even Sandra, despite her junkie wrinkles and black teeth, is fatter.

All of that money that I'm earning, I've said nothing to Social Services about. Why should I? It's all under the table. This way, instead of paying for Sandra's bills and taxes, I can stash it back. And so far my plan is working wonderfully. Mandy has one more year of school to finish out after this coming summer. After that, I see myself far away from Chicago, from Illinois in general. I'm not sure where yet. Just that I want to start over. Somewhere that people don't know who I am, what I come from, what I've done. Somewhere that the people around won't stereotype straight away to: broke ass, thug, Milkovich, faggat.

I keep thinking about going West.

Sitting on my back porch, huffing down a cigarette and staring up at the sky, I ponder what it might be like to relax. To maybe get used to being me. Rather than the me everyone is used to. What it might be like to watch this fake skin crumble. To crush the mask. To destroy the facade. The facade that has become my reality. It's so deep now that I don't think I can wash all of it clean. But at least I can take moments like this to hope on it.

It's funny. Ian once asked me why I don't try. And I told him, I said, "Because I'm fucked for life anyway." And maybe I am. But now I've decided to try and break the mold anyway.

In the room behind the cracked back door, I hear someone rummaging around in the cupboard. "Mandy," I call over my shoulder, "if you plan on chucking whatever it is you stuff into your mouth back up," I say and take a drag, "don't dare eat my god damned Poptarts."

I get no response. Breathe out, stand up. I dust off my backside and turn to grab the doorknob, but stop and glance over my shoulder.

A shrill shriek later, and I'm staring at some drunk crashed into my neighbor's house.

The shit going on in this place never takes a break. I finish my cigarette and observe my neighbor rushing outside with her slippers on and shotgun raised. She fires into the night sky and all I can do is grin, ready to burst out laughing while the drunkard stumbles out of his smoking pickup. He waves at the woman and tells her, "Don't shoot me! I'm sorry, lady. Please don't shoot!"

I kind of hope she does. That could have been my house. My back porch. My guts squished across it. I chuckle, shake my head, and go inside.

Whoever was searching around is gone. I hear the front door shut and I figured Mandy is running off to find Lip. She doesn't know he's once again spending some his nights with Karen Jackson, two blocks North. I only recently found out and beat his ass for it. He says the bitch is knocked up. He says it's probably his and not her new husband. So I've decided to let this one work itself out because well, Karen's a slut. That baby ain't his, and I'll bet my seven grand on it.

I take seat at the kitchen table and yawn a few times, rubbing my eyes. What I ought to be doing is sleeping. But it's barely nine o'clock. The reason I'm so exhausted is probably from a caffeine crash. Since I can afford it now, I've become addicted to energy shots. Mandy told me the best way to end that is suffer a three day headache and quit cold turkey. Two days down.

Poptarts sound great right about now, so I get up and go to the cupboard for the Fudge ones. What I find when I open the cabinet is that Sandra's black bag is missing. I always stash it on the very top shelf, behind all my Poptarts. What's also not in there is my canister of Maxwell House coffee.

Oh, not that big a deal. It's just what I keep _all_ my money in.

Panic strikes me hard and I mad dash through the house and into Mandy's room. If she's in there naked and rubbing one out, I don't know. I just know that she's clueless to the money I've saved, and she'd better not have stumbled on it and swiped it.

The door flies open and I bare my teeth into Mandy's messy room. She's laying under the covers, wearing her secret reading glasses and looking at some school book. She sits up and scowls back at me.

"What the fuck is your problem?" My sister bellows, banshee like. "Knock first, you creep," she hisses. What do you want?"

"Where is it?" I growl at her. At this point, I've forgotten that the canister isn't the only thing missing. But it hits me while Mandy tells me she has no idea what I'm on about.

"Sandra!" I yell at Mandy, my hands balled up tight. "Where the fuck is that junkie bitch?" I yell some more. Once I start in it's hard to stop.

Mandy stands up, furious and confused. She's wearing one of my band t-shirts and that's basically it. Her hair is tied up with some bandana. She marches at me and starts shoving me out of her room. "Get out of here with your screaming, asshole!" she bites. "How that fuck should I know!" she says, and has a good point. "You and Sandra need to learn and get along!" she snaps and slams her door.

I kick it while tugging at my hair. And then I go about the hallway, punching and kicking the walls, screaming out for Sandra to get the fuck out here. Only she never responds and I honestly don't expect her to. Because her room is empty. Because her black bag is gone. Because my seven grand is also gone.

Sandra. She's either out buying more drugs with all my money, or she has skipped out. Knowing her, it's the former.


	29. Hit Me

Drabble Twenty-Nine: Hit Me

"So is she uh back, then?" Lip asks me through a mouth full of cereal.

I play with my own food, untouched, and stare down at his table top, written on in crayons and marker.

Lip's house is empty because he sent all the kids off to school. He's skipping today, just like he skips most days. He told me that since Fiona ran off with the guy whose name I don't remember, Lip has practically dropped out of school. But not officially. He only shows up about once a week, and yet he's passing everything because he's a damned genius. He says he's confident that he'll manage to finish school and raise his family at the same time. But then, that was before the Karen buisness that has my sort-of friend making plenty more mistakes than usual. It's funny. All most more than me.

"I don't know if I want to kill her," I tell Lip, finally taking a bite of soggy Apple Jacks, "or just hurt her really, really badly."

Humming in the back of his throat, Lip drums his fingers. His lip is still scabbed over from my foot and his eye is still healing from my fist.

Me, I don't have any bruises because Lip chose not to fight back that time. And also because we've taken a break from the club. Because of Karen.

"I just know you and me, we have to schedule something," I go, "because it's all gone. All of it. She wasted every cent and now I have to start over."

Lip sighs and stares at me for a few seconds. "I can't," he finally says, and rubs the back of his shoulder. "I mean, not until I figure out what's going on with Karen," he explains. "You've got Pablo's," he tells me.

My blood begins a steady boil. It's rare that I seek out Lip's company. Even more rare that I ask favors and go back on plans. But this is kind of an emergency. And quite frankly, his situation is not. Breathing hard and heavy through my nose, I stand up. The table shakes some and Lip grabs his bowl. Mine almost spills onto the floor. I slam my palms down and shove my face almost against his. "Listen," I rumble, low and threatening, "I'm not fucking asking your god damned permission on this one." I snort. "That spic run-in don't earn me enough to pay for a five dollar hooker," I say.

He wrinkles his nose and pushes me away from him. Points bravely in my face.

Thing is, I lied.

Lip and I, we spend a fucking lot of time just sitting around together and doing a whole lot of nothing lately. In a way, he's kind of become the closest thing to a friend that I have ever claimed. So him being brave enough to wag a finger in my face, it's nothing new. It does, however, always resort in what happens next.

My fist hits Lip hard in the temple but he ducks my second blow and bulldozes at my waist. His arms wrap around me, and growling like an animal, Lip Gallaghers nearly rams me through his kitchen wall. We fight for as long as it takes to come full circle, back to the table. Or I should say, under it. Long enough for my bowl of milk to fall on both our heads.

The fighting stops because I jump off of Lip, crawl backward, and start furiously wiping food off my face and neck. Lip, he just scoots up right and glares at me, panting and holding his side.

"Fuck you!" I yell, slinging the handful of food I've collected off my body at his face. He flinches away from it and I go, intense, "What the fuck are you even doing here, Gallagher?" I ask, suddenly serious, arms out at my sides in question. "Helping out some whore who's pregnant with a kid you don't even know is yours or your daddy's?" I laugh, merciless. "Get right!" I yell. "Because I ain't got time for your bullshit waste of life!" I scream in his face.

Lip comes back at me, more enraged than I've ever seen him. He screams at me to get the hell out. Not to come near him or his family again. "I'm a waste of life?" Lip roars back at me, lip raised, full of acid. "You're the one who relies on me to attain lucrative income so you can take care of your junkie aunt and cunting sister!" he yells. He gets to his feet, nose to nose with me at this point, and snaps, just as hateful as I was, "Mickey, you wrote the book on screwing up. So don't you dare judge me, you fucking faggat!"

Lip, he's not homophobic. Thing about Lip is, probably he's the closest thing to being gay without actually fucking guys. Another great quality of his, is being downright malicious when he's angry. We have that in common.

Eyes wide, I stare at him. And he stares back. Quiet. The weight of what just came out of his mouth thick in the air. Lip blinks a few time, then shakes his head. "I'm sorry," Lip starts, "I didn't-"

And I punch him square in the nose. Blood gushes down his shirt when his hands go to his face. All he does is gasp and back away from me.

Eerily calm, I walk to his door. Facing away from him, I tell Lip to watch his back. And I leave.


	30. Why Don't You Cry A Little

Drabble Thirty : Why Don't You Cry A Little

Since Sandra's being home again, I haven't spoken more than a few sentences to her. It's been a month that she's home. And the most I've said, I threw out at her during her first day back, when she walked out of her bedroom after my return from Pablo's. Before going to Lip's. Something about her being worse than the shit I scrape off my shoe on the El. Something about strangling her. And she called me my father. To which I hauled off and, for the first time in my life, slapped a woman.

I don't feel great about hitting Sandra. Maybe that's why I'm avoiding her. Maybe that's why I've nearly chalked up what she did, forgave her.

Because fuck her; I ain't my old man. I don't beat on women. And I certainly won't let her bring me to it ever again. If that means letting this one go, so be it.

Splashing my face clean, I grab for a random towel on the floor and dry off. Today's the first time I've shaved all month. I looked like I'd never heard a razor and the itch had been driving me mad.

When I walk out of the bathroom, which is, subsequently, in my bedroom, I spot Sandra sitting in the hallway. I go to shut my door. Because I don't want to look at that bitch. By the time my hand is on the knob, I can hear Sandra's sniffling. Ass that she is, my aunt has managed to make herself feel like a victim. Again. Always, it's me that is the asshole in her eyes. Never mind that she just shot up all my hard earned cash into her arms and between her fingers.

I groan, "Sandra, go to bed!"

She just keeps on whimpering. She wipes at her face, her smeared makeup and snot. And looks up at me, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. "Mickey," she cries, "I'm sorry I hurt you. I'll pay you back," she lies, "honest I will." And she crosses and X over her heart like we're in fucking pre-school again. Groveling at my feet, the forty year old woman professes, "I'm going to get clean again. I did something while I was gone. Something bad!"

And I tell her I don't want to know. I try to shut my door, but she's crawling over to it, sobbing loudly. Thank Christ Mandy is at school.

"Please!" Sandra practically screams. "I need someone to talk to!" she pleas.

"Fuck off," I growl at her, ready to slam her fingers in the door. I have work in less than an hour and at this rate, I'll be late. "I have to leave, Sandra. Just go lay down! Shoot up! I don't care! Get the fuck out of my face!" I scream, vein popping out in my neck.

And that would be about the time that my aunt falls to her back and wails like a toddler. She grabs at her hair and starts sobbing uncontrollably.

"Jesus!" I scream out. I step out and slam my bedroom door. Bend down and pick her up bridal style. She hugs to me, snotting up my work shirt. It had been clean. For once. I walk into her bedroom. It's a wreck. discarded needles, molded food, and just trash everywhere. Plus it smells like vomit. Probably because there is a layer of puke on most of the carpet. I drop her down onto the unkept bed and sigh down at her when she rolls onto her side, curls into herself. Ashtrays are overturned everywhere. Even on the bed. She is currently laying in a pile.

"Oh God, Mickey," she moans, racked with tears, "please just stay with me!"

Uncrossing my arms, I sigh again and look at the clock hanging on the far wall. If I leave now, I'll make it to Pablo's on time. I look back at her doorway longingly.

She hiccups and tugs at her hair. "I didn't see her!" she sobs. "What did I do?" she wails. "Oh God, I'm so sorry!" she cries out, praying or talking to me, I don't know.

My stomach and chest ache terribly. I swallow and hold my face, biting back my own self loathing tears.

"Please, Mickey!" Sandra begs me again.

And shaking my head, pulling my hand away, I sit down at the foot of her bed. I sit there, staring off into space blankly. Sit there while Sandra thanks me, still sobbing. While I'm late for work. And who am I kidding. I'm not going to be at work period today. No. Instead I'll be taking care of fucking Sandra. The bitch who spent all of my money. Why?

Because she looks like my fucking mother. Because she sounds like my fucking mother just before my mom took Mandy and I, then fled.

Because I miss my god damned mom. Because I didn't even get to say goodbye.


	31. Easter Sunday

Drabble Thirty-One : Easter Sunday

I'm back to eating dry packs of Ramen noodles and drinking from the tap. Sandra's her old self again, passed out in the floor, floating, most of the time. Mandy, though, she's never home. Only late at night, for about as long as it takes her to smear makeup on again and leave. But I've checked, and she is still making it to school. Yesterday, I caught her in the kitchen, cramming pizza bagels into her mouth over top of the sink. She smells like liquor and cigarettes constantly. And while she was eating those bagels, I saw the nasal inhaler in her pocket.

My sister, I can pretty much deduce that she's out rolling, getting drunk, and trying to forget about Lip Gallagher.

But it's getting dangerous. I don't like that my sixteen year old sister is out alone at weird parties. Taking ecstasy and doing who knows what at raves. So I've decided to put a stop to it. And I know well enough that just telling her to quit ain't going to fly. She's as stubborn as I am.

I skip work again, ignore Reba's phone calls, and wait. Faking sleep on the sofa when Mandy stumbles in and raids the kitchen. Pukes her guts up thirty minutes later in the sink, and makes to leave again.

I follow her.

What I follow her to is probably the single most fucked up version of an egg hunt that I've ever witnessed. This place she's lead me to is an abandoned bar. And this large group of people, jamming out to loud dubstep have stashed glowing eggs practically everywhere. I can see clearly that the fake eggs are stuffed with pills. Fortunately, I can see that Mandy is more interested in the booze by the stage.

Hanging back, it's clear to me that Mandy is safe enough. As weird as this party is, Mandy seems content among the group of four girls she's hanging close to. I decide to let this night slide. To confront her in the morning before she leaves for class.

* * *

**NOTE: **For those of you who have seen Skins Gen1, hopefully you'll recognize the Tony/Effy feel I tried giving Mandy/Mickey.


	32. Good Thing, Too

Drabble Thirty-Two : Good Thing, Too

By the time I make it home, my guts are in knots over my choice. Mandy's a smart girl. She knows better than to get too fucked up. I keep telling myself this while I light up a smoke and pace my livingroom floor. How I've gone from juvie punk to father figure is beyond me. Life is strange like that.

"That you, Mickey?" Sandra calls out, weakly, from her open bedroom.

I tell her, yeah, to just shut up. I say, "I don't have time to talk right now." And then I leave the house again. Decide that I made the wrong choice. Something, maybe it's just paranoia, keeps telling me I should have forced Mandy to come home.

At first I don't remember the exact way back to the party, but I find it eventually. The music is so loud, I can feel it in my bones, even standing across the street. How these people haven't been raided is beyond me. Someone must have paid off the police.

Hands in my pockets, I stroll back into light show hell. How Mandy gets something out of this, I don't know. This is entirely not my scene and I stick out like a sore thumb. I wouldn't have guessed this was Mandy's idea of a fun night, but hey, maybe I'm starting to realize you can't judge a book by its fucked up cover.

This party is still full swing. I shove my way through the dancing and peer at the stage area. Naturally, Mandy isn't still standing there. I hadn't really been expecting her to.

Things to note about this bar are: it's two stories, one is underground; wall to wall with people, it's a claustrophobic worst nightmare; and all most all of the glowing eggs are empty now.

I rush around, shoving at people, calling out for Mandy. I should have stuck around. Because apparently the Egg Hunt took place after my departure and I'm betting Mandy found her a few. She's not a druggie, but Mandy does sometimes like to dabble in ecstasy. I'm also worried someone snuck her something. I've seen SLC Punks enough to be extra freaked out to the point of sweating bullets.

Dizzy with the music and flashing lights, I shoulder my way down a hallway, toward the basement bathroom. Still calling out for my sister. Trying to to picture the worst.

And it's a good god damned thing I came back.

When I make it into the bathroom, shared I might add, the door slams shut behind me. I spot my sister's boot sticking out from a back stall. She's laying on this sticky floor.

"Fuck!" I scream.

The bathroom is empty save for Mandy and I. Outside, though, teens and pediphiles bounce around to a bastardized, remix Static X song.

"Mandy?" I ask, and my voice sounds distant in my ears. I run over and drop to my knees beside her.

Mandy, she's wearing some glittery, black and striped dress with only one cargo boot. The other is behind me, under the sink. My breathing catches in my throat when I jam a finger against her neck for a pulse. She's got one, but it's weak.

"God damn it, you stupid bitch," I bite back the ball in my throat, picking her up. She's overdosed on something.

Holding her back against me, I grit my teeth, shut my eyes, and cram my fingers down her throat until my sister starts heaving up all around me.


	33. Desperate

Drabble Thirty-Three : Desperate

Things to note about me are: I have a low self esteem, I overcompensate by being a huge prick, and I've never gone longer than two weeks without having some kind of sex. Until now.

Before my regular rendezvous with Ian Gallagher, I was fucking random chicks or at least getting a handy or blown. Before Ian, I'd never considered myself even a little bent. Even though it took a while to get going with most girls. Since Ian, I've come to terms that I was merely closeted. Now the thought of a woman against me does nothing but make my thoughts wander to the multitude of gay porn now sitting on my hard-drive and it's only then that I can get it up.

Basically, what I'm getting at is that I don't know exactly why I haven't gone out and had sex since Ian and I split. So tonight I am.

Sandra and Mandy are hauled up on the sofa, watching something off of the Cable I'm now stealing from our neighbor. Actually, Mandy is watching and Sandra is basically passed out in a bowl of popcorn. It's a little after nine tonight and I sneak out without notice.

I'm not sure where I'm headed until I get there hours later, after a lot of roaming aimlessly.

Greg's house is off to itself at the end of his presentable neighborhood. He lives pretty far from my place. And while my neighborhood is mostly a mix of culture and poverty, Greg's is mainly rich whities.

The house is painted cream and has vines growing on it. It and it's big red door. And the flower beds and fountains. And the huge garage.

I almost turn around for a couple of reasons. One being that I clearly don't belong in a place like this. Two being that the last time I saw Greg, Lip had the guy's face against a curb while I kicked the fuck out of his rib-cage. me.

I've only ever been to Greg's once, when Lip and I went to confront the guy over my back alley beating. Greg knows I'm Lip's best fighter. Was. Knew that so long as Lip had me scheduled, Sidney Boy and the other on Greg's side didn't stand a chance. So he played us by asking Lip and I to come down to the alley and have a chat. Naturally he jumped me, since I got there first. I still haven't figured out exactly how he knew I would be there first, but that doesn't matter now. We whipped their asses and all was right until Karen got knocked up and told Lip.

I'm sure Greg is pretty happy, now that he's basically running the Fight Club without Lip. Now that I'm not included.

I don't turn around and leave for a couple of reasons. One being that I'm like a dog in heat and Greg's the only other guy I know who swings for my team. I know because he and Sidney Boy had a thing. Two being that I need money. And if Lip won't fight me, Greg probably will.  
So I stroll up to the house and ring the bell.

I overheard Greg say once that his parents are always away on meetings and what have you. So I'm not so much worried that they'll answer. I stand there for a few minutes, listening for footsteps. The house must be reinforced for silence because I don't hear a goddamned thing, but when I turn to leave the door is opening. I pivot back around and look over Greg.

He's standing there, hand on the door, ready to slam it, I'm sure. He's wearing green sweat pants and nothing else. I can see the goose flesh pop up on his tanned skin from standing sort of in the cold. It's still chilly outside, despite the season change. Chicago is notorious for that.

Greg's hair is longer than I last remember it. Probably shoulder length and it's tucked behind his pierced ears. He's scruffy. That tan he had going is faded some, thank fuck because it looked terrible. His green eyes dig into me, suspicious and he knits his brow. "Why are you here?" he asks slowly, shutting the door some.

I rub my lip and peer around him into the darkened house. I shrug and I ask, "You got company?" And by that I mean to know if his family or Sidney are in there somewhere. He tenses up even more. Probably certain I'm here to attack him. It's not like I have a reason to, and I tell him to calm down, "I'm here to talk business," I say. And get fucked, but I leave that part out. I know Greg has a thing for me, despite our treatment of each other. I've caught him looking at me like he shouldn't more than once.

"Business?" Greg drawls. "Yeah fucking right," he snorts. "Lip send you all this way?" he asks, crossing his arms.

More things to note about Greg are that he is actually attractive in that primed and posh kind of way. But the way he's dressed doesn't look right on him. He looks like he belongs in my world more than just at Fight Club. Like he belongs in South Side or a jail cell. He's twenty one and still living at home because he attends college. He's scarred up because he's adopted; where he lived before was a foster home that took fondly to whipping. Sometimes a little too hard. His accent is a mix of deep south and his trying to hide it.

I know all of this because Sidney knows all of this. And Sidney has a big mouth when he's drunk at parties he wasn't invited to.

Greg sighs heavily and re-tucks his hair on one side. He moves over to let me in. "Come on in," he says, aggravated but relenting because he knows I won't leave.

Hesitant, I go inside. I give him a threatening look on my way in, just in case he plans to knock me over the head with something. Once inside, my eyes roam over everything in Greg's dark living room. Everything is modern and looks unused. A light is on up the staircase. Where I assume his bedroom is. He was probably sleeping when the doorbell rang. By now it's almost eleven, after all. And most people that aren't me have normal sleeping schedules. I hadn't pictured Greg being one of those, but I'm allowed to be wrong occasionally.

I stuff my hands into the pockets of my jeans and watch Greg walk around me to a lamp. He flips it on, then sits on the skinny, black leather sofa. He bends forward and grabs a pack of smokes laying near a nearly empty ashtray. Still leaning forward, he lights up. Looking up through his first drag, he goes, "So talk, Mickey. I've got places to be in the morning."

I arch a brow and cover my smirk. "Lip's out," I say, blunt as ever. "I don't know for how long," I continue, catching his attention immediately, "but I need money in the mean time."

"I'm not a bank," Greg breathes out calmly.

"And I ain't asking you to be," I say. "I'm simply saying that I'm bored as fuck. And you know I fight better than your boys," I tell him, confident now that this will go my way.

Snorting again, Greg rests back on the sofa, one arm draped out behind him, the other resting on his knee, cigarette burning away. He smiles cruelly up at me. He says, "Oh how the mighty have fallen!" He laughs. "Mickey Milkovich, crawling to me for help. I love it!" he claps out, then takes a drag. "No," he shakes his head, then asks, "Tell me why I should help you after what you and Lip pulled outside of Meedos?"

"The beating?" I sneer. "Go fuck yourself! You attacked me first," I remind him. "Don't tell me," I begin, smiling back at him, "I hit you so hard that you have delayed amnesia."

Chuckling, Greg stubs out his cigarette. He stares at the coffee table. After some silence, he nods. "Seventy-thirty," he says, serious. "That's how it'll be split," he says.

Suppressing a yawn, I shake my head and crack my knuckles. Like hell he thinks I'll settle for a deal as shit as that. "Fifty or nothing," I say. "I ain't wasting my time here am I?" I ask.

He looks up at me, sucking his bottom lip, aggravated once more. Nostrils flaring, he cups his hands on his lap and says, okay fine, he'll give me my fifty, "But," he goes, "you get thirty from the bets."

I roll my eyes. "Whatever," I say. Because I'm hoping this will only be temporary. Hoping that Lip finds out Karen's baby isn't his. Hoping he gets back into the club and I can drop kick Greg down a peg where he belongs.

We shake on it. Greg rests back again as I tower over him. I don't miss how he has his eyes on my hips. He sniffs and scratches his rough cheek. "Is that all you came here for?" he asks, the starting of a smirk ghosting his face when his eyes meet mine.

I raise and drop both brows. Lick the crook of my mouth. Stare down at him in silence, hoping he'll just catch on and move this along.

He does.

* * *

**NOTE: **For a good idea of how I'm looking at Greg, picture season one Jackson Teller form Sons of Anarchy.


	34. Roses

Drabble Thirty-Four: Roses

Sandra's house is full of mostly useless junk, crap furniture, and the things Mandy and I have collected since our beginning here. Among some of Sandra's piled up junk are these ceramic plates my dad bought Sandra when she married my now deceased uncle Henry that I never actually met. Sandra poisoned him by accident. Or so it was ruled in courts. Afterwords was her quick descent into heroin, crack, and pills. Anyway, Sandra really likes those plates. Even stoned out of her mind, my aunt will wash them daily and arrange them just so-so on the cluttered up hutch in the kitchen corner. Mandy ate off of one once and Sandra nearly hyperventilated.

I'm eating off one now because all of the plasticare is trashed and I ain't bothered to run to the store. Across from me, my newest business partner is also eating off of a rose painted plate.

Greg's got on his faded jeans and some tank-top and fluffy coat. Even though it's warm today. Sometimes I think Greg doesn't know which fashion scene he wants to be part of. One day he's pretty-boy frat and the next he appears to really have a yearning to make a rap video.

With his mouth full, he looks over the contents of the envelope by his plate of reheated mashed potatoes. Before he swallows, Greg says, "This is bullshit." He flaps the envelope once and tosses it my way. "You looked it over before you called me," he says, "and didn't think to mention the guy ripped us off two hundred?"

I take a minute to gulp down some of my water. Run a wrist across my mouth and wipe off the dirt on my pants leg. I shake my head. "I took it," I say, casual, "not Dante. He paid up in full."

"You what?" Greg gapes. "You can't just do that!" he hisses.

I slam a fist down quick on the table. The dishes and other crap rattle. From the living room, the television light flashes on the far wall, casting Mandy's shadow. As I speak, the sounds of fake gunfire fill the house.

"What do you think this is?" I growl through my teeth. "A fucking domesticated relationship?" I snap. "Don't tell me what the hell I can or can't do. Piss off!" I tell him, and by the look on his intimidated face, he gets the point.

It's almost June. Greg and I, we've been partnered up in bed and at the club for almost two months now. Three of the worst months I can recall having ever endured. And not just because I don't like Greg and keep wishing he was someone else.

Mandy. I love my sister, but she's in denial about why she's really turning herself into the county slut. She's too much of a little bitch. I never thought I would see the day Mandy Milkovich didn't just waltz out the door and beat the shit out of her arch nemesis. But I guess Karen Jackson has luck on her side. That or maybe even my sister won't stoop so low as to kick a pregnant woman. Sandra. My aunt is worse off than ever. And lately she's trying to befriend me. My father was turned down for parole. Which is honestly both good and bad. My likeable brother was shanked by his cellmate. Iggy's funeral was lonely and a bleak reminder of the path my life will probably take. Me. I'm involved with a guy I don't even really like. The only person ever to get close enough to deem my friend has turned to a self righteous prick that I no longer want anything to do with.

Also about me. I'm teetering on depressed but refused to let anyone know it.

"Fuck you," Greg says and rolls his eyes. "You can't just take more than your share of our earnings," he gripes. More to himself because I'm hardly listening at this point.

As I spoon in another bite of food, I hear feet padding through the hallway. It's Sandra. And I look from the plate in front of me to the one Greg has tipped against his mouth so he can get at the last bite. The ceramic, white plates with hand-painted roses. The ones specifically only for decoration. My eyes crawl upward as Sandra steps into the kitchen. She's wearing her nightgown, free of vomit stains just this once. My aunt's eyes trail over the two of us at the table. And she glances to her right; to the hutch. Her face draws up. I can hear her panting from this far. Greg is oblivious to the spectacle going on behind him.

My eyes widen and Sandra grips the hutch and in one motion, tips the whole thing onto it's front. She stands there, furious and screaming. Broken ceramic and trash is everywhere. When the hutch hit the floor, Greg was on his feet, potatoes spilled on the front of his coat because of his surprise.

I sigh and hold my head. Greg doesn't bother speak, just grabs the envelope and bolts to the front door. When the door slams and Sandra collapse to the floor, picking up pieces of broken plates in tears, I see Mandy standing in the archway. Her arms are crossed and she glares at me.

"Jesus, Mickey," Mandy grumbles, "what the fuck did you do this time?"

I sit up straight , hands in my lap, and blankly watch my aunt rock about the kitchen floor.

Also to note about me, I don't know how much longer I can take this excessive amount of bullshit. I feel like my knees are about to buckle under all this weight.

* * *

**NOTE: **Sorry this update took so long. I've been watching Sherlock on Netflix and to be quite honest, I'm in a state of emotional shock. If you've never seen that series, please go watch it. I don't want to suffer alone.

Also, sorry this chapter is weird and kind of depressed feeling. It's going to get worse before it gets better. Turn back now if you aren't prepared.


	35. Flood Gates

Drabble Thirty-Five : Flood Gates

Mandy's out getting wasted. Again. I usually don't know with who and she won't talk to me about anything. So far I've found her passed out in a bathroom, puking and belligerent near the shoreline, sleeping on the El, and throwing blunt objects at the Gallagher fence and windows. She broke three windows, tore down the side gate. I can't be a hypocrite and judge her. Can't really get her to stay home. All I can do is hope she makes it back okay and, sometimes, follow her and bring her home when she's not completely conscious.

I'm not following her tonight. There's no need when I know exactly where she's going. For once.

Karen Jackson went into labor last night. I heard from Mandy that the baby, born five months early and dead, wasn't Lip's. The last part I already knew. Mandy's celebrating by getting Lip shithammered and consoling him. She didn't say, but I can kind of figure by the way she's been acting.

I want to go rub it in Lip's face. I told him so's and all. But even I'm not that cruel. Though I kind of deserve to be, given that the fucker deserted me when I really could have used his friendship and brians. He left me with Greg and a less than lucrative income.

So, home alone, brooding, I clean up some of the junk still cluttering up all of our air. I first pick up all of the ceramic pieces on the kitchen floor. Sit the broken hutch outside where the city can pick it up. I stand outside, smoking the last of my Newports before going back inside to sit and stare at a disconnected television.

Actually, I'm not completely alone tonight. Sandra is here. Cooped up in her room and probably pissing the bed again.

Sometime I feel like I run a very ineffective rehab.

All is quiet while I sit watching my own reflection. My eyes trail over the livingroom floor. I haven't tried cleaning in here. And honestly, I'm no longer in the mood to be a tidy person. I'm never anyway, and have no idea why the urge struck me earlier. No I just feel deflated.

The thing about being depressed is, even when you figure out the exact second that triggered the problem, the deep sadness is stuck with you. Unlike a phobia, depression isn't easily fixed by finding the root cause. Finding that made mine worse. Actually, I'm living in my root cause. My own reality. All of my mistake and a lifestyle that I was born into.

I fucking hate it. What I once thrived on now makes me want to peel my own skin off.

Why? Because while I watch what's left to my family spiral down the gutter, myself included, all I can think about is pale skin, red hair, and freckles. And a cheeky grin telling me that my life doesn't have to be fucked. That I just think too small. I need to look at a bigger, brighter picture and realize genetics don't paint a life story, self realization does.

Ian Gallagher folks, a self appointed therapist.

Fuck him for implanting ridiculous thoughts in my head.

Sighing, I rub my face and bend forward, scuffing my feet on the filthy carpet.

If I could be anywhere but here, doing anything but getting bruised up for a living, what would it be? What the fuck else am I good at? I don't know. My parents never taught me that.

My throat stings. My eyes sting. I rub my face harder, palming my sockets until I think my eyes my bust. Blowing out a heavy breath, I nudge the junk pile under the coffee table. My eyes focus in just enough time to see Sandra's black bag roll out, unzipped. The contents spill out at my feet. And it's like a really bleak sign.

I've seen my aunt shoot up enough times to know what I'm doing is totally fucked up, but that doesn't stop me from using. Just this once.

Curiosity and nothing more. A need for dulled senses and nothing more.

The gunk I shoot into my veins within the next fifteen minutes is like a hot flush to my system. Like that quick release during climax. But it's not quick. It lasts. And lasts.

I'm hooked and I know it. Just from this once. Instant regret mingled with a bitter sense of misguided happiness.


	36. So It Begins

Drabble Thirty-Six : So It Begins

"Mickey," my sister calls through my cracked bedroom door, "your probation officer is at the front door." When I don't respond, Mandy barges is. She groans and yanks at the covers I'm currently tangled up in. Exasperated as she yanks it off of me, Mandy says, "She's pissed and I don't feel like lying to her again." Finally pulling me free, Mandy squeals and tosses the blanket back over me as I yawn and push myself up slightly. "Jesus!" Mandy bellows, scowling at me and already across the room. "Put some fucking clothes on!" she says and storms out, cheeks burning.

I lay back for a few minutes, collecting my hazy mind and staring at my ceiling. I don't remember coming to bed. What I do remember is falling asleep at Greg's after discussing with him the possibility of buying from his friend's dealer. And waking up to the sound of his snoring. I remember leaving by the same window I crawled through. Coming home and helping Sandra up off the bathroom floor. Hitting her stash again. Watching some moronic show on FX.

She's running low. Which means I'm running low. Which means I need some money to get my fix. And also to buy some food and maybe pay the phone bill. Fortunate for me, Greg knows a guy who sells smack relatively cheap and is willing to hook me up. Greg never touches the stuff, but doesn't give a good damn if I do.

I've been on the stuff for only a few weeks. So far I'm not a complete slave to it. Not in my opinion.

Stumbling out of bed, I slip into my jogging shorts and don't bother with a shirt. I scratch myself on the way to the front door and frown in Reba's serious face.

Mandy let the bitch in. Mandy who is now stuffing her face with the last of our cereal and watching me from the kitchen counter.

"Mickey," Reba greets me. She tightens her frown. Her usually cheerful, optimistic face is grave. "Pablo says you haven't been to work all week. Are you sick?" she asks me, already knowing I'm clearly not. She sighs before I can lie. "You only have two weeks left before you probation period ends," she tells me, shaking her head and looking saddened. "Don't mess up your freedom," she pleas. "I've seen so much success from you," she says. "You were doing so well," she says.

This bitch is deluded.

I scrunch up my face and flip her the bird, nonchalant. "You done?" I ask, cocking a brow.

Reba, she crosses her arms and looks around the house, concern evident on her face. Mandy frowns at her from the kitchen walkway, milk dribbling down her chin. The sound of Sandra throwing up is the only thing to be heard now. I can practically see the wheels turning in Reba's head. Concern mixed with disgust turned to alarm and realization. She looks me over, eyes darting and chewing her painted lips. She closes her eyes and when she opens them, I shudder at the sympathy she's not bothered masking.

She digs into her purse and pulls out a business card. For a split second I wonder why she's bothering handing me that. I've not skipped my appointments with Reba because I've lost her information; I'm skipping because I no longer give a fuck. But when she pulls out a pen and writes on the back of it, reaching it over to me before letting herself out, I see what she is really about.

It's a card for some beauty shop. And written on the back is what I figure is probably her personal phone number. Standing in my front doorway, Reba looks back at me and clears her throat. "In case you want sanity in your life," she tells me. "Or in case you just want to talk," she says. "It's my cell phone," I'm told. "It's always on me," she adds before shutting the door. Through the crack, she says, "I'll tell Pablo you're down with the flu."


	37. Realign

Drabble Thirty-Seven : Realign

I wake up one morning, having slept at the foot of Sandra's bed. Her foot is what wakes me by kicking my face. The both of us fell out after getting high. I never thought I'd see the day I was on level with my junkie aunt. I hate it but somehow I can't really bring myself to stop. I tried last week. Cried myself stupid in the bathroom with a needle in my arm and thought_ never again_. I went almost the entire next day before the withdrawal was too much. I'm a fucking addict to much worse than nicotine at this point. Mandy knows now. She knew about Sandra, but was happy to live in a blissful state of denial about me until last week. Or maybe it was only a couple days ago. My perception of time is kind of lapsed. I haven't been to work since a week before Reba showed up. Whenever that was.

I fucked Greg sometime a few days ago, but haven't been to the fights in about a month. I think.

The month is. . .I think early July? I don't know.

Rolling off of Sandra's bed, I stretch and survey the room. We left her bag out, but now it's missing. I walk around, heart racing away from me. I trash the whole room before Sandra wakes up, sort of, and throws a pillow at my head.

"Be quiet!" she slurs, sleep heavy in her voice. She presses her face into her pillow and yanks the covers over herself more. Curls into a ball. She says something else, but it's too muffled to understand.

I curse and stomp out of her room. Panicked. Because I know for certain that I left the black bag beside me when I passed out. But then again, maybe I didn't.

Walking toward the living room, I groan in misery and rub at my bare arms. Unlike my aunt, I'm all right to be awake a few hours before the need gets too bad. Before I shoot up or pop a pill. My plan this morning is to eat something finally, if there is anything in the kitchen. I'm not working anymore so no one's buying food. What was left of my last trip to the grocery is probably emptied out or almost. But saying there is at least some crackers, I plan to eat that. Maybe curl up on the couch and claw my skin off until I can remember what happened to the bag.

It's only when I see that the sofa is currently occupied that I stop and think maybe my sister has the black bag. Maybe this is her way of trying to cure me.

I scowl. To the knee raised up on the sofa, the only part of Mandy that I can see, clothed in jeans, I say, "Where's Sandra's bag, Mandy?" I say, "I need it."

"No you don't," comes my response, in a voice that doesn't at all belong to my sister. The voice is deep, sarcastic, and snooty. I know it immediately even though I haven't spoken to Lip Gallagher in what seems forever.

My lip raised, blood boiling, I go, "The fuck are you doing in here, Gallagher?" Full of malice. If he thinks for one second he is going to worm his way back into my good graces, he's got another thing coming.

Lip sits up, holding the black bag that my eyes are immediately drawn to. He turns it over, frowning, sighing as he looks from the bag to me. His eyes stare directly at my arm. there aren't a lot of track marks yet. I've not been using long enough. But I know snide ass has seen something. He looks at me, disappointed.

"Jesus, Mickey," Lip breathes. "Really?" he asks, and I can hear how hurt he is.

Fuck him. Like he really gives two shits.

"Get the hell out," I snap, marching over. I grab for the bag, but Lip pulls it back.

He tisks me, holding the bag out of my reach and standing up fast, backing away. "Mandy tells me she can't even get you to leave the fucking house," Lip says. He tucks the bag down the front of his pants in an act of defiance when I step close again. Like that will stop me.

"I leave the house when I feel the need," I go, sour faced, prepared to throw myself on top of Lip and wrestle away the black bag. My blood pressure is sky rocketed. "The shit do you care?" I hiss. "Hand it over!" I growl, fist balled.

Lip laughs bitterly. "Yeah you leave to get fucked by Greg Dales. To score some more," he pats the front of the bag, "of this junk." He shakes his head. Motions over me with his hand. "My God, Mickey! What the fuck is going on with you?" he asks, knowing damn well. He licks his lips and takes a minute to collect himself. All the while backing away from me still. He holds out a hand to stop me approaching. "I know you're mad at me," he says.

"Understatement of your lifetime," I bite.

He winces. "I'm sorry," he says. "I don't. . ." he trails, takes a big breathe, "I was a total dick."

I cock a brow, heart ready to leap out, fists ready to pound his face in.

He throws the bag at me, and I must look terribly surprised. In one breath he tells me that he's thrown everything out. Flushed the tar, tossed the needles and every bottle of downers and uppers I had stashed in the pockets. "It's empty," he tells me while I look to be sure. He furrows his brow and almost reaches out and grabs my shoulders because I'm shaking, but he shifts back, unsure. "You're not a junkie, Mickey," Lip says, confident. "I'm getting you off this shit," he says just before I punch the fuck out of him.


	38. Lullaby

Drabble Thirty-Eight : Lullaby

To get me clean, Lip has all but held a gun to my head while dragging my ass to a rehab center. Thing is, I've only been on drugs for a couple months. August just started up. So going on three months, give or take. Especially considering Lip had gotten me 'clean' for a solid week last month. So that shaved off some time. But I didn't last when left to my own devices and Sandra; and not because the withdrawal was too strong. Like I said. Three months. And that ain't enough to get me clawing at my skin no more than five days when detoxing. I wish Lip would just give up. Because well. Truth is, I just like it. I don't want to stop.

Think of your best orgasm. Now multiply that by everything and even still you can't understand.

I have never used the word love. But if I was going to, I'd say I love the feeling heroin gives me.

Not so much the other drugs, though.

I just pop uppers so I'm not totally useless, like Sandra. By itself, heroin will knock my ass out for hours. When coupled with coke or uppers, I'm basically lucid. More or less.

None of that matters right now, because apparently Lip has figured it all out. How he's going to save me from myself.

Half in a daze, sitting on my sofa, I stare practically through Lip, who is sitting on my floor. He tells me exactly how this is going to go down. First I'm going to go puke my brains out. "Then," he says, "I'm bringing you home with me."

Now he has my attention. I cock a brown, shake myself, and go, "The fuck did you just say?" And obviously I heard him.

"I'll lock you up in Frank's room," Lip says. "He won't give a shit. He's at Sheila's anyway," he says. "You just have to cut yourself off from everything else. Especially from Sandra and this house," he tells me. "And eventually you won't want it," he finishes, sitting back, confident. "And maybe you can go to a fight or two," he adds as an afterthought, "get out the rest of your aggression once the withdrawal is over. So you can come home, eventually. The aggression," he says, nonchalant, waving a hand about, "you know, toward whatever made you pick that shit up in the first place."

Amused, I thumb the crook of my mouth and knit my brow at Lip. One foot bouncing over my knee to keep me centered, I tell him the truth. I say, I don't want to quit. And anyway, "I picked up the habit out of curiosity," I tell him. "There is no aggression," I say. It's a bold faced lie. I can see that Lip smells it.

"Right," he drags, sighing. Rubs his hair. Pats his knees. "So you're happy being a drug addicted louse, then?" his voice drifts, pissed off.

I'd respond if I was awake.

* * *

**NOTE: **Super excited that about the first episode of season 3, guys. I had to watch it Monday morning because of not having cable. . .again. And I refuse to stream it via bad quality. But whatever.

Anyway, I can't wait for next Sunday. I especially can't wait for episode 3, where shit is said to hit the fan. And can't wait to see our boy Milkovich grow a heart. Whenever that will be.

Also, hope you guys enjoy these updates. I'm still hauled up on my sofa with a stress fracture in my lower leg. Since I can't do much else but sit around and be in pain, I plan on churning out a few more tonight. This leg thing is pissing me off. Sorry to rant, but. . .I love running since recently picking it back up, and not being able to kind of sucks a lot. Not to mention I'm having to STILL work like this, and I'm pretty sure it's slowing down the healing process horribly. Oh well. Such is my life.


	39. Cigarette Burns

Drabble Thirty-Nine : Cigarette Burns

Whenever, much later, but maybe the next day. I don't know. I wake up with Lip sitting at the foot of my bed, smoking a cigarette and yammering on his cell phone. He doesn't notice I'm awake at first, and tells whoever he's speaking to he's borrowing a room from his neighbor's empty house. "I'm helping out a friend," he tells the person. And the knowledge that he's talking about me pulls me in two directions. The remark almost warms my chest and stings my throat. As much I'm aware, no one, not even my own sister has called me their friend. I'm basically the trade book definition of school-yard bully, after all. Abused at home and so I take it out on pretty much everyone. Inside I feel small, so I hit hard to feel big. Blah blah blah. But then, just because I never asked for friends doesn't me I don't secretly want one. Second hand, through, Lip calling me that pisses me off. For two reasons. One, he flat out abandoned me for a piece of tail. Two, I guess I always suspect the worst of everyone.

Before he hangs up the phone, he plucks the cigarette from his lips, inhales, and breaths out while asking the person, "What time should Debs and I pick you up from the bus station, then?"

My eyes widen, and I sit up slowly. He can only be talking about two people. And I know for fact that Lip hasn't spoken to his eldest sister since she took off with her rich boyfriend two years ago. She sends post cards. Calls. Lip never answers. He erases all of Fiona Gallagher's voicemails where she apologizes and asks if he wants her to come home. Where she cries. Says she doesn't want to be another Monica. But she won't come where she's not welcome anymore. Says she made her life's worst mistake.

I know this because Ian cried about it once. Ian, who misses the hell out of Fiona. Ian, who fell asleep on my bed over the whole mess, when he caught Lip deleting the messages before anyone in the house found out (or so Lip thought).

Speaking of. If Lip's not talking to Fiona, it must be Ian.

Now Lip knows I'm up, so he says, "Right. See you." And hangs up fast.

I kick him hard enough that he sails off my bed, barely catching himself before straightening out his clothes. Rubbing his backside, he glares at me, biting down hard on his cigarette, ashing in my floor. Not that it matters. This room is worse than it has ever been.

"The fuck are you doing in my room?" I growl, fisting a pillow and hugging it against my chest, blinking my eyes and rubbing out the sleep with one hand. I kick the blanket around to get it off one leg because I'm burning up. "Fucking creeper," I mumble. "What do you want?" I ask, not wanting to let him know that I overheard some of his conversation. It would just be awkward.

Lip takes in my appearance. I haven't shaved in a while. Or showered. Plus I'm bare ass naked. And I guess I have track marks now. Some. Mandy says my skin looks sick. So probably Lip thinks it too. He exhales heavily and stuffs a hand in his pocket, still smoking with the free one. "You busy today?" he asks, sarcastic.

I shrug and fall back, yawning. Scratching my stomach, I tell Lip that yeah. Plenty busy. "So get lost," I grumble.

Lip probably rolls his eyes. I don't know because I've closed mine again. He would, though. I hear him walk around. Hear him stop near the headboard. I furrow my brow, frozen and suspicious. But it's too late for me to react by the time Lip burns the fuck out of my shoulder with his cigarette.

Screaming, I jerk up and slam my palms into him, cursing.

"Put some clothes on," Lip tells me, unfazed, catching his balance and taking another drag.

My insides boil.


	40. Pain

Drabble Forty : Pain

And here I am, sitting on the floor in an empty room. Hair bunched up in my hands while I sweat bullets and rock back and forth, telling myself this will all be over soon.

I don't know why I agreed to do this. I guess somewhere deep in me, I do actually want off this stuff. Because sometimes, if I'm sober and looking at Sandra, I think I must look like her, and almost kill over on the spot. Sometimes, when I go for a pick up, when I catch myself nodding off on the El and miss my stop, I hate myself. Or the time I stabbed Greg in the calf because he wouldn't just shoot me up when my hands were shaking too badly. I really hated myself then. Especially when he broke it off with me the next day. Whatever it was that we had going.

Now I guess I understand how Ian felt when I stormed off.

It's a strange thing, detoxing. Day one, I was handling pretty well. Day two I wanted to stop. Was in horrible pain. Sick to my stomach and shaking. It's day three and I still am. But now all I can do, besides scream, is think. And maybe, it's worth it, quitting.

I mean, how did I get to this point, anyway?

All this because I'm depressed. And how exactly does a person go about mending that? Well, honestly, I don't see that I can. At this point, I kind of just want to hang myself from one of the ceiling boards overhead. Because fuck. This pain. This nauseous. It's misery. I have never known such ache and sickness.

Well, except for the last time Lip and I tried this.

But still. That was different. I tried this at my house then. Of course that would never have worked. But maybe here, in this empty house, with Lip stopping in ever so often. Maybe I can kick it.

I just kind of don't want to be locked in this room anymore, though.

Just me, no food, a shit ton of water, and a pot to piss in.

God damn I want a hit, just to end this.

This sucks.


	41. Fuck You, Friend

Drabble Forty-One : Fuck You, Friend

Falling asleep while this miserable is a God damned feat. Personally, I think I deserve a treat for that. Like, oh I don't know, for my body to stop hurting so badly.

Yeah. That would rule. Best treat ever.

"Fuck!" I scream at the top of my lungs, repeatedly kicking at the backwards locked door. "I can't do this anymore!" I scream, kicking and kicking, and laying there on my back, banging the back of my head on the hardwood. "Let me the fuck out! Right the fuck now!" I bellow. I can feel tears on my cheeks and try to pretend they aren't really there. Try to picture that the tears are in fact just more sweat. I fail because the next thing I know a garbled sob escapes me. I mask it by screaming until my face is red. When I can no longer breathe, I lay back, panting, gasping, and kicking weaker now. I stop banging my head. Everything is quiet. Too quiet. For a second, I panic.

"That your way of saying thanks?" Lip's voice breaks the silence, muffled through the door. He's sitting with his back to the other side, I figure. He's been there since I fell asleep less than an hour ago. I can hear him nursing a beer. And God do I want one. Anything to dull my senses. He says, "You're welcome. In advance."

Anger bubbles up inside me and once again, I go to kicking the door. "Fuck you!" I yell at him, more heated than I think I have ever been. I scream myself purple, "Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!"


	42. Boston

Drabble Forty-Two : Boston

Lip has taken to sleeping outside my door some nights. I've taken to singing at the top of my lungs, the most obnoxious things I can think of. Anything to make him as miserable as I feel. He doesn't speak, but I hear him moving around, so I know I'm not crazy.

Or fuck. Maybe I am.

It's been a week now. Judging by how many bags I was going through, I'd say I might be at this ten, maybe twelve days. But this feeling is unbearable. I don't think I can hold out. Basically what I'm getting at is, I feel like I'm dying. And dying men do crazy things. Like stamp about the room singing a bad cover of Drop Dead Murphys' _I'm Shipping Up to Boston_.

Sans music and only with my awful voice.

When I'm done with the last verse, I collapse to the floor and chug some water. It's pitch black in here because Lip's neighbor never had the power cut on. Which is why it's also extremely hot.

Laughing like a lunatic to myself, I swirl the last of my water around. I'm surprised it has lasted this long. My stomach grumbles because I'm fucking starving. Continuing to slosh the water, I hold up the jug as if Lip can see it, and yell, "Hey, dickface, I'm running low on fluids! Not about to drink my own piss. Help me out?" It comes out hateful because that's how I feel.

Lip hasn't spoken to me in two days. Just sits out there. Sometimes he paces.

I hear the floorboards creak as he stands up. Finally, I think, he's going to speak. To open the door. To see what mess he has made of me.

I chuckle. Snort. Burst into laughter. This shit is driving me mad. I cover my mouth. "Well?" I bellow, suppressing a fit of laughter still. "I swear to Christ, Lip," I threaten, letting go of my mouth, "if you don't say something, I'll sing again!"

Jesus Christ, I sound four years old. I'd be ashamed if I weren't in such a state.

A breathy laugh comes in the following few seconds of quiet while I glare the door down. A laugh that catches my breath in my throat and makes my stomach sink. One that is far too deep to belong to Philip Gallagher. One that I haven't heard since before the holidays last year. One that I used to hear often. It stops and my heart breaks. Panicked even more, now for different reasons, I sit there perfectly still, hoping that I am just crazy after all. But then again, hoping that I'm not. I can hear every sound the house makes while it settles. I don't even think I'm breathing.

Finally my confirmation comes in the sound of Ian Gallagher's voice. Deep and amused, yet sad and distant. "I was kind of enjoying it," he says.

I breath out and it takes me a minute. Finally, I look around the room awkwardly. My face is red. Why? Because Ian heard me acting like that? How it should matter that he heard when I fully intended for Lip to hear me, I can't grasp. Or maybe that's not it at all. No. It's because I don't like Ian knowing I'm this fucking weak. If he's here, it's because Lip blabbed. Or maybe Mandy. But Lip swears Mandy thinks I'm off on a bender. I didn't want anyone knowing. But he told Ian. Or Ian found out on his own. Either way. By now Lip has sure enough spilled the beans about my addiction.

So what does Ian actually think, then? And why do I care, if we're done?

The thoughts weigh heavy on me.

Are we done? Should we be? Do I want that? What the fuck do I want? Certainly not this.

"You okay?" Ian's sudden question shakes me back to reality.

"Yeah," I say, gruff. I pause, then say, civil, "I'm fine." I curl into myself and back against the wall. Like adding more distance between me and that door helps. "What are you doing here?" I eventually ask.

Whatever clothes Ian's wearing scuffs the door. He sighs loudly. Then he tells me, sarcastic, "Camp's over. So I came home."

I roll my eyes. Hold tight to my knees because the nausea is coming back. "Not here in Chicago, you ass," I bite, moody for good reasons. "Outside my door," I say.

"Oh that," Ian says, voice lowered. "I followed Lip," he confesses. "Confronted him. It's not every day my brother spends a lot of time keeping secrets and dragging jugs of water to empty houses," Ian says.

"He tell you everything?" I ask, and my guts hurt. My head feels dizzy. Probably it's been Ian outside that door these last few nights.

It takes Ian a minute, but he says, "No. Just that you're detoxing."

I'm both relieved and nervous. Because if he doesn't already know, Ian is sure to ask.

I have no idea what to say. My guess is, neither does Ian.

"Do you want me to leave?" Ian finally breaks the silence.

I almost jump. "No," I say, all too quick. then, to smooth over, I say, "Go grab me some water." And as I say it, when the last word leaves my tongue, the thought occurs to me that Ian will open that door to hand me the water. And I'll see him. And he'll see me.

Things to note about Ian are; he's that pink shade of ivory and it makes his hair stand out too much. And his freckles. He's two years younger than me but nine inches taller. My guess is he weighed maybe one hundred and thirty pound soaking wet before shipping off to ROTC camp. My guess is now he probably weighs one hundred and ninety pounds, probably all muscle. And he always looks either happy or perplexed. Healthy. Too good for this place and the people in it.

Things to note about me are; I'm a fucking wreck right now. I look like I belong here. And I hate that. Even though it's true and always has been.

He's seen me look rough, but Ian hasn't ever seen me look quite this awful. And frankly, I don't want him to.

"Actually," I go, just as he takes a few steps, "never mind."

"You need water, Mickey," he says slowly. "And probably some food," he says. "You want some ravioli?" he asks, awkward.

I clear my throat. "No," I say. "I can't eat anything without," I stop. Look over at my puke bucket. "Well," I say, "just no."

"Just water? You sure?" Ian repeats.

I nod, then realize he can't see me. So I tell him I'm positive. And to hurry the fuck up. I'm dry as hell. The perfect excuse as to why my voice is scratchy. Even though I only just ran out of water. My throat is perfectly fine.


	43. Drink Up

Drabble Forty-Three : Drink Up

The entire time I'm waiting on Ian to bring back some water, I find myself fucking with the locks Lip placed on the bedroom window. The so called master bathroom attached to this empty bedroom, doesn't have a window. So this, besides kicking the door down, is my only escape route. I figure the door is not worth it. I'm almost positive that Lip reinforced it with something; he's smart enough to know I might try leaving. The locks are not budging. So I give up, collapse on my ass, shiver, and panic. The aches seem to be getting better right now. Thing is, this happens; one minute I feel like I'm dying, and the next it subsides, tricks me into thinking I'm over this. But the unbearable pain always comes back eventually. It's just a matter of the waiting game now.

Groaning over the inevitable, I get up and go to my puke bucket. Sometimes I'm way too sick for a run to the toilet. Hence this disgusting thing. I've only vomited once in the last day, as opposed to the several times yesterday. Actually, I'm making some kind of progress. I feel a swell of pride as I walk into the bathroom and hide the bucket behind the sink.

At least if Ian decides to walk in here, my puke's not at his feet.

Seriously, I hate looking so weak. Why did I get myself into this? How come it didn't bother me sooner? I guess addiction takes away shame.

The knock on the door breaks my attention span and I walk back into the room, arms crossed, frowning as Ian opens the door.

At first he only cracks the door open. Looks me over, hesitant, calculating. Curious. I can tell that Ian is trying to piece together my last few months just by the sight of me alone. And the next look he gives me plainly says how frustrated he is that it's not possible. That he will, inevitably need to ask. But maybe he's debating that. Maybe he'll leave it. One can hope.

How exactly do I tell my ex that I've been shooting up with my aunt and sucking someone else's dick for a spoonful? I don't. End of story. Absolutely will not.

Ian looks behind him, probably afraid that I might make a run for it by bulldozing over him. Then he looks back at me and steps in a little farther. The door standing open around him. I can leave. He's giving me the opportunity. And all of this, this is one of Ian's mind fucks. He's testing me.

Slowly, Ian raises up a gallon of water, dripping with condensation. He shakes it a little. He asks, "You okay with me walking in?" His hand hovers over the knob and drops. I nod and so he walks in, leaving the door open still.

My heart races as I stare out at the expense of the hallway. God damn it. The need in me aches horribly again. I could leave now. Go take a hit and feel okay again.

But instead I grab the jug from Ian and take a minute to drink at least two glasses worth. I wipe my mouth on my bare forearm and sigh, content. My eyes are on the floor. I chew my lip. Finally, I look back at Ian and study him for changes.

I was right, he's put on quite a bit of weight. his hair's buzzed off. I don't like it, but it's not my hair to be choosey over. Ian is wearing pajamas. Of course. It's what, probably two in the morning at this point. I ask him what time is it. The day.

Ian quirks a surprised brow. Watches me sit the jug down. Watches me sit cross legged beside it. My body must be covered in sweat. I'm burning up. It's stuffy as fuck in here. So I'm in just my sweatpants, which are more filthy than usual. I been in this room a week, I think. No running water in that bathroom. Which I've shut the door to because it's terrifying in there. Ian probably thinks I look like the seventh circle of hell. Because I do.

"It's Wednesday," Ian tells me, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his plaid pants. "Last I looked," he says, "it's almost three in the morning."

"Jesus," I sigh. I rub my oily hair. "I've been in here ten days, then," I say. "Fuck!" I go, shaking my head, brow knitted. I rub my face, say into my hands, "Ten days." I look up at Ian over the tips of my fingers on the bridge of my nose.

He furrows his brow, frowning. Not a look I like on him. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asks me. "Do you want to talk. . ." he trails, then goes, "about why you look like Frank?"

At that, I snort. "Cosplay," I chuckle, half hearted.

"Damn good one," Ian says, the corner of his mouth quirking, but the smile doesn't touch his big eyes. "You're beard's bigger than his though," he says. He rubs his own head then. Says to me, "You want my clippers? I can go get them real fast."

"Nah," I say, letting go of my face and leaning back against the wall, hands gripping my knees. "How was your stupid camp thing?" I ask, looking off at the window, guarded .

"It sucked," Ian says, laughing lightly. He clears his throat right after. Sits down in front of me. Stares until I look back at him. His form is more relaxed than my own, but I don't miss the tension in his fingers as they dig into the floor by his hips.

I meet his eyes for a second then quickly looks at his hands again. Anywhere but his face. Yet it's clear that Ian isn't talking again until I look at him.

"What is this shit?" I ask him with my hands, grumpy, scowling. "Thanks for the fucking water," I growl. "You can go now," I say, making a shooing motion and finally looking Ian in the eye. But only for a blink, then it's back to his prominent veins my vision goes.

"What's going on with you, Mickey?" is the deadpanned response I receive.

At that, I glare at Ian. More shocked at his nerve than angry. My stomach twists. My heart leaps into my throat. I might puke. But I try to swallow the urge. I bite my cheek and taste blood. Breath deeply for a minute before I knit my brow. My eyes are glued to his now. Even though I want to look away, I can't. "I'm fucked," I finally say, more of a whisper. There's a pause while I take in the meaning of what I've let out. The weight of everything tied into that one statement. I hold one eye, laughing through my nose and smirking ironically. "Your brother," I ask him after a few minutes, "what all he tell you?"

Ian shrugs, then rubs his forearm awkwardly. He exhales slow and loud. The tells me, "Not much. He said you tried smack, got hooked, and locked yourself up in here to get off the stuff. He didn't really elaborate." He says, "It's your business to tell. That's what Lip said." While I sit there quietly, inwardly fighting the urge to hurl and scream at the pain now starting to rack my body again, Ian sighs, frustrated in my lack of response. He doesn't know my many conflicts. And why should he? After all, I'm sitting here straight faced and scowling. The latter to mask my pain. Probably he thinks I'm a prick and maybe it's better that way. He scowls back and stands up. "Fine," Ian snaps, "clearly you're not sharing anything. Well good luck with life." And with that, he storms out slamming the door behind him.

But I don't hear the lock turn.


	44. Under the El

Drabble Forty-Four : Under The El

It's Lip's kid sister who finds me under the tracks over my neighborhood. I guess she was walking to summer school, being as the sun is now up. Lip told me once that Debbie tried running away from home to find Fiona. She missed a lot of classes and she's making up for it during break. Like I really wanted to know that shit. But I do because Lip's my best friend and he talks a lot when he's high. It's weird.

Anyway, Debbie stoops down and sees me sitting against the column, head on my knees as I sleep. She pecks my shoulder. Pokes me with a stick.

I've met this kid all of twice during my ventures to the Gallagher house. She always seemed the naive and helpful type. Boy can I peg them.

So she poke my shoulder. I groan and reach up an arm, pushing her knee cap, shoving her away. Never once do I look up. But I hear her telling me, "You're my brothers' friend, right? That cop over there is talking about arresting you for loitering."

Loitering? The word whirs through my head. And fuck the cop, whoever he is. Loitering? Really? I see bums sleeping under this thing all the time. Clearly the one is being a dick because he probably recognizes me. I look up finally, blinking the sleep out of my eye. Squinting up at the girl, I say loudly to the officer off in the distance, "Kiss my ass, bacon!" As my eyes focus on the face in front of mine, I see the outline of red hair and for a second I panic.

The cop drives away. My stomach settles. My eyes stop playing tricks on me.

Debbie Gallagher, she says, "I thought maybe you were dead when I first saw you." She stands up straight, grips the straps on her bookbag, and grins at me. "Lip and Ian are looking for you," she says. "See ya!" she goes, perky and go lucky as she waves backward and trots off.

Overtop of me is a thick piece of carpet that I used as a blanket. Who knows where it has been. Actually. Scratch that. I can only imagine. I toss it off me and slowly get to my wobbly feet. Once steady, I look around. Catch sight of my house over to my right. The events of last night crash down on me. I swallow hard.

"Fuck," I breath. Wrapping my arms around myself, I close my eyes and think back, trying not to vomit.

I came here because I ran out of that fucking room I'd been locked in. Because Ian left it unlocked on purpose. Because he hates me with good reason. Because fuck it. Because I don't hate him, I hate me too, and that's the problem. Point is, I left to shoot up but I changed my mind. Passed out under the El instead.


	45. Fuck Sympathy

Drabble Forty-Five : Fuck Sympathy

Lip and Ian eventually stopped looking for me. Thing is, I didn't go back to Lip for help, but I asked the person that I did go to, to let Gallagher know I ain't dead in a ditch somewhere. The way I see it is that Ian really doesn't want me around. He made it pretty clear. Gave me an open door to fuck off out of. And I did. My guess is, Ian was probably out looking for me with Lip because Phillip Gallagher plays hardball when he's angry. Probably pressured Ian into. Guilt tripped him. So I solved both our problems by calling the phone number I'd had in my pocket since Reba last stomped over to my aunt's house.

And here I stand in the doorway to Reba's guest room. She's behind me, holding the one bag I brought along.

Going into Sandra's house to collect a change of clothes and some shoes was probably the most difficult act I've ever completed. But I did it because I have no desire to continue down the road I'm heading. Now, that's not to say I'm going straight edge. I am who I am. But what I'm not is a junkie.

Reba, she sits my bag down and flips on the light switch. It's bright in this room. The walls are white and the bulb is high energy, so it's almost blinding at first. Especially since the rest of Reba's house is painted up in dull colors, warm and relaxing. This is white and plain.

"Sorry," Reba says, coughing into her hand. "I never really have guests, so," she sighs, "I haven't gotten around to decorating."

I shrug and look over the full sized bed shoved in the corner, near the window. The barebones dresser and nightstand. "It'll work," I go. After all, it's better than the room I've been hauled up in until last night. I don't tell her that. Turning around, I rub the side of my mouth and bend to pick up my bag. When I start walking into the room, shooting Reba a thank you over my shoulder, she stops me. Puts a hand on my shoulder. Thankfully, I've since tugged on an inside out t-shirt. Else her hand my get stuck there because of sweat and grime.

"Michael," Reba starts, sympathetic sounding, "would you like a shower and something to eat?"

I look back at her over my shoulder, frowning, gripping my bag tight. Almost, I tell her to fucking forget everything. I almost leave. But I don't. Even though I don't want Reba's sympathy, I could use a place to crash while I finish this once and for all. The worst of my detox is over. It's clear to me, being as the pain is dull and it's mainly the want tugging at my brain now.

Instead of cussing her and bolting, I chew the inside of my lip and ask her, "That your way of telling me I smell like hell?"

She chuckles and releases my shoulder. "I'm just offering," she says, soft smile on her trusting face.

This bitch. Despite her sunny disposition, she's been the probation officer most people wish they had. I guess for once, I got lucky.

I toss my bag into the center of the guestroom floor and cross my arms. "Where's your pisser?" I ask.

Reba points to the door at the end of the hall. Just before her opened bedroom. She wets her painted lips and steps back, letting me pass.

Ten minutes later, I'm having the shower of a lifetime. Pretty sure I might clog up her pipes with all this dirt. I don't shave because I don't have a razor. And when I step out and go to the mirror, lean on the sink, I knit my brow at my appearance. I'm pale as ever, but the bags under my eyes are terrible. Way worse than usual. Like I've been beaten. My lips are red and cracked. There's a scab on my bottom lip. I'm fucking thin, too. Sickly looking. I've always been on the lighter side. But this. This. I look like a holocaust victim. It's some scary shit. And my beard might look all right if it weren't so patchy.

I wipe my hand on the mirror in an attempt to smear away my face. And laugh to myself quietly because that's silly.

Once I dry off and step into the hallway, I stop short because of nearly stepping into a plate of meatloaf and some strange looking salad. The note beside of it reads:

_Have a meeting at my office. Help yourself. -Reba_

Still frowning, I squat down and pick up the plate, step over the paper, and collapse on my new bed. Crossing one's legs in a towel is kind of difficult, but I manage. I eat the entire plate of food. Even the salad, which I normally would wrinkle my nose at.


	46. Cupcakes and Spoons

Drabble Forty-Six : Cupcakes and Spoons

Nineteen years old. That's the official word this morning. Reba, as I stretch on my way down the hallway,greets me with her cheerful, "Happy nineteenth birthday!"

Rolling my eyes, I step into the living room and scratch my bare side. I've been living in this house for almost two months. At first I thought the itching was a new bit on my detoxing. But unfortunately the itching is still going strong even now that I'm officially clean. Reba says maybe I'm allergic to the laundry detergent but hasn't stopped using the same kind every Tuesday. It's likely a small act of revenge on her part, against my poor behavior the majority of the time. I know I'm an asshole but have no clue how to change. I actually don't want to. My personality isn't on my list of ways to improve. I think I'm just fine. People can either like me or not. I don't give a fuck.

She stares at me, her painted lips spread wide and stands up from the recliner with a sprinkle, homemade cupcake in her hands.

I scrunch up my face and glare at the baked good. "The fuck is that?" I ask, brows up, nonchalant. I don't do birthday celebrations unless the party involves booze, pot, and a deep dicking. This is none of those. And Reba's such a terrible cook that I highly doubt the treat is even actually edible.

"You're birthday cupcake," Reba chuckles lightly. "I had a candle on top," she informs me, squinting down at the smeared icing, regretful, "but the entire candle caught fire."

"I don't want it," I say, kind of gruff, walking past her and into the kitchen. I'm not a morning person. Plus this act of caring is weird. Nevermind that this woman opened up her home to me, having barely known me at all; Reba's always caring. But this tips the scale for me, somehow.

The linoleum is ice cold against my bare feet. Reba keeps her house extra chilly. She's followed me in here, still reaching out the cake. Ignoring her and opening up the fridge, I pull out the half gallon of whole milk and pop the lid. Standing there drinking it, neck back, I look down my nose at Reba. When I'm done drinking what's left of the container, I smash it, sigh contently, and arch my neck to wipe my mouth with my bare shoulder. I see Reba roll her eyes and my lips turn up to a smirk. I wink at her just to piss her off as I toss the container in the garbage.

"Well," Reba huffs, sitting the cupcake down on the countertop, "I'm off to work. Eat it or don't." She pulls at the sleeves of her dress-suit and grins at me, annoyance gone as fast as it came.

Leaning against the countertop, I cross my arms and look at the awful excuse for chocolate, smirk still in place. Snorting, I meet Reba's eyes. She looks happy. "Guess you'll be glad to see me leave, huh?" I ask. Birthday cake? More like, good riddance cake. Her start to the Goodbye Mickey Milkovich celebration. I packed my shit up last night. Not like I had much of it. I've only left Reba's house maybe twice this entire time, and even those instances were only to check her mail for her. No need for clothes or much else, really. Usually I slouched about in nothing but the tan sweats I'm currently wearing, watching her tv, dicking around online, and sleeping too much.

Reb looks surprised and angry at my thought. She shakes her head. Already she's going for the purse on the table. Shouldering it, she looks back at me, hands on her hips. She says, "No." She says, "But also yes. I'm proud of you."

There's a flutter in my stomach at her words and also a burning on my face. I scowl and wave her off, turning around and flipping on the sink, rummaging in the cabinet for a glass. I take a drink of lukewarm water and stare at the dirty dishes. "So bye, then?" I say. "I probably won't be here when you get back," I go. "And fuck knows you ain't planning on looking me up after this," I mumble. After all, I've been an extremely poor house guest. Shockingly, I'm almost positive that I'm the first person to make Miss Reba Holisten swear and break things. She's so even tempered and _sweet_ that the behavior seems fake. But it never is. Yet I broke her demeanor more than once during my time here.

Reba hums, probably still smiling, no teeth. She's an easy book to read, even with my eyes closed. "Mickey," she sighs, "you're a good kid."

My eyes pop open and I swallow, stomach turning, suddenly nervous. I clear my throat at the ball forming out of nowhere. I don't turn, but I hear Reba walk out the front door. I'm still staring at my reflection in her silverware when I hear her car start up.


	47. Flushed

Drabble Forty-Seven : Flushed

The door to Sandra's house is never locked. I'm not shocked to find that still true when I show up on the doorstep, pillowcase full of my stuff slung over one shoulder. The door is never locked, the floor is hardly visible, and the place reeks of vomit. No change there either as I step inside. I drop my bag at my feet and wrinkle my nose as I walk in and shut the door. The first problem I'm facing, besides my fear of Sandra's black bag, is that Reba got me used to cleanliness. To a certain extent. I think I might have mucked her home up some. But ultimately, I'm usually freshly showered after three days tops, and used to the smell of dark brewed coffee filling the air rather than filth and body odor. Sandra's house kind of makes me want to burn everything while wearing a hazmat suit. How did I live in this?

It's amazing how fast a person's homely views can alter.

Standing there, gazing around the room, I eventually get used to the odor. I guess that's why this place never really bothered me before. I was just so used to it. It ain't like my dad kept a great living quarters either. And no one ever scrunched up their face and told me I smelled bad. Not until Reba and her unbiased view on my self and lifestyle. Well, except for in school before I dropped out. But typically I just beat the shit out of anyone who commented on the tears in my clothes and the dirt on my skin. Being poor and from a broken home, I always figured, was better than being a stuck up jerk off whose parents give a hundred dollar allowance; a punk with no idea how to actually survive in the real world.

Scratching my chin, I listen for signs of life.

Truth is, I haven't spoke to anyone since leaving for Reba's. I thought it the best way to get myself clean: cutting off everything I'm used to. Including Mandy. Because of all that, I actually have no idea if Mandy is even still living here.

So I lick my teeth and call out for my sister. The response I get is a groan from the bathroom. And it ain't feminine.

Confusion and alarm maring my face, I walk toward the sound, head cocked. "Sandra?" I ask.

When I reach the bathroom, I find the door open and none other than Frank Gallagher piss drunk and passed out in a tub full of cold water.

"What the fuck!" I yell, startling him.

Frank jumps about, splashing water onto the floor. The water is cloudy with grime and soap scum. His hairy leg flies over the side and his eyes bug at me. Seconds later, after he recognizes my face, Frank laughs nervously and hold his hands up in surrender. "Did my kids send you over here?" he asks. "I don't want any trouble! I haven't come around!" he voices firmly. Coward that he is, Frank says, "I've got five dollars in my pants pocket," and points at the jeans wadded up in the corner, nodding like a five year old, "take it and we won't mention this."

First of all, what I'm dying to know is what this is. I scowl and grab his ankle, yanking him out of the tub and onto the dirty floor. The bathroom smells of piss and booze. Frank flops about and rushes to cover up with a random dirty shirt. Petrified, he looks up at me.

Baring my teeth, I yell, "Frank, why the hell are you in my house?"

"Your house?" Frank barks back, suddenly growing a backbone. "This is my house now!" he says. And then proceeds to inform me that my aunt has passed away. She left Mandy the house. Mandy told Frank he could live in it if he left his family alone.

"Wait," I ask, holding my forehead, "what are talking about? Where's Mandy?"

Frank stands up, the short barely covering him, and purses his lips. "How should I know," he says, flippant. "Probably she's playing house with my kids," he emphasises, rolling his eyes and throwing his hands up, losing the shirt coverage as he steps back into the tub and sits.

I gawk as he waves me out and says, "Now go on. But first could you," he says with a drunken slur, "hand me that beer can in the toilet?"


	48. The Welcome Party

Drabble Forty-Eight : The Welcome Party

This wasn't the welcome home I had expected. Actually, I'm not sure what I saw coming. Certainly it wasn't Sandra dead and now being, apparently, homeless. Fucking thanks to my sister. She has some god damned explaining to do.

Banging on the Gallagher's front door, I sniff hard and scowl, ready to give my sister a verbal bashing. Right after informing her that, by the way, I'm back to normal now. Cleaned up nice and pretty.

Someone answers the door on my tenth bang. Someone tall, freckled, and buff. Ian's features go from pissed off, ready to bite my head off to shock. Frozen there, he gives pause for a second. Huge hand holding the door open while he looks me over. Thanks to Reba, I'm back at my typical weight and no longer look like the living dead. When last Ian saw me, I was down to one-hundred and thirty pounds. His eyes linger too long before he blinks back to reality. "Mickey?" he remarks, mouth hanging open.

Things to note about me are: I've been contemplating what to say to Ian Gallagher upon my triumphant return for the last five weeks. And all of my planning was for nothing because I'm drawing a blank.

The fucker probably hates me now. I fucking would.

"Wow," Ian says stupidly, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing over his shoulder. The house is quiet behind him. When he looks back at me, his lips are set into an unreadable frown. He lets go of the door and steps back. "Mandy's out," he says, then shakes his head fast. "Um, how much did Frank tell you?" he asks, one eyes shut, turning his face like I might hit him.

I tilt my head. "What the shit is going on around here, Gallagher?" I ask. "What did I miss," I ask.

Ian gives a warning laugh as I walk past him and into the house. I can tell he is just as thrown by the situation at hand as I am. Mostly because he has explaining to do and also because I gave no one any warning that I was leaving Reba's. Probably his honest opinion was that I wouldn't follow through with getting clean. Maybe he even figured I was living in some crank house and had robbed Reba blind.

I fucking would figure that, if I were him.

And so, for the next twenty minutes, Ian Gallagher stood in the corner of his living room, watching me closely, arms crossed, while he explained everything. Me, I just kind of sat on his sofa, shaking my leg and staring at him with big eyes and a frown. When he finishes, I run a hand through my hair and lean back, stare at his ceiling. "The state bury her?" I ask, knowing full well the answer. Sandra had no one but Mandy and I. And Mandy wouldn't have put forth money for a funeral. She hardly liked Sandra.

Ian nods his head. He looks me over, face softened, eyes searching me for something, I don't know what. "How um," he clears his throat, "how are you?'' he asks me, hesitant. Unfolds his arms and fiddles with a hangnail, watching me intently.

I shrug. "Better," I say. I hope we won't get to mention our last encounter. I hope to just forget about it. That was my fantasy at Reba's. Hopefully it plays out. Hopefully Ian senses this. He's just as much a person to bury a skeleton as I am. No pun intended. I sit up and prop my elbows on my knees, hunched over and looking up at him. My tongue darts out to feel the back of all my teeth. "You got a smoke?" I ask him, casual, yet even I hear the uncertainty and awkwardness in my voice.

Ian brightens and digs in his pocket. Tosses over an almost empty pack of Camels and his lighter.

Lighting up, I put his last cigarette down on the coffee table and pocket the lighter out of thoughtless habit. He notices but says nothing. I'm known for absently losing and stealing any lighter to grace my presence. Taking a long drag, I exhale slowly. "Fuck," I breathe, closing my eyes. "I missed this," I say when I open them and look at the cancer stick between my fingers. "That bitch Reba wouldn't let me smoke in her house," I tell him, "and she threw out my smokes the first day."

Ian grins weakly and sits halfway on the arm of a chair. "So yeah," he says, eyes darting around me, "how was living with your probation officer?" He's no stranger to Reba. Having never met her, yet having been told everything by a past, disgruntled me.

"She ain't actually so bad," I say, taking another drag. I tap the ash out on my knees and rub it into my jeans. "Smoking aside," I snort, fumes puffing out my nostrils.

There is a long silence that passes between us. He's looking at me, thinking. I know this but I don't look back at him. This is uncomfortable. I have no idea what to say. Apparently neither does Ian.

Taking a sharp intake, I pat my knees briskly and toss my cigarette butt on the tabletop, stubbed out on my shoe. I twist my lips to the side and chew the inside of my cheek. "Any idea when Mandy'll get back?" I ask Ian, breaking the silence.

He knits his brow at me. "I dunno," he shrugs out. "She's with Lip behind the alley," Ian says. "So," he drags, "probably not until late."

"Oh," I go, standing up and stuffing my hands into my jeans pockets. "Tell her I'm. . ." I stop. Frown and look at the floor in thought. Tell Mandy what? She's going to be so fucking livid with me. I can just see her punching my arm and baring her teeth. _Mickey_, she'll hiss, _you're such a bastard_. She'll tell me how awful I am and then call us even. I doubt we'll ever talk about my previous drug addiction. That's just how our little family works. Always has, always will. I sigh and rub my lip. "I guess I'll be at _Frank's_," I bite, sour faced.

To my surprise, Ian bursts into laughter. His cheeks tinge and he smiles at me unexpectedly. He even shocks himself, I can tell. "Mandy figured you would stay here," Ian says. "You can," he says. "No one minds," he tells me, big brown eyes boring into mine. there's lust there. It's a welcomed stare.

Slowly, a grin creeps onto my face and it's catching.

Next thing I know, I'm bent over the back of Ian's sofa, cum dripping down the back of my thigh and completely sated. Breathing heavy and dripping in sweat. Ian buries his face against the back of my neck and just breathes. His heart pounding against my back. He wraps an arm around my stomach. For once, I don't tell Ian to get the fuck off of me.

* * *

**NOTE: **Sorry these updates took so long. I've been having some major writer's block with this. So I wrote some other stuff and cleared my head. I think I'm good to go now XD


	49. Musing

Drabble Forty-Nine : Musing

Way I figure it, hiding my and Ian's whatever this is from everyone but the already aware Lip and Mandy will be increasingly difficult the longer I live with all of them. So from day one of my moving into Ian's house, my plan has been to move Frank the fuck out of Sandra's and take it for my own. Mandy doesn't want the house. Obviously. She's content playing homemaker with Lip when not too busy finishing up her senior year.

Where I'm sleeping is Ian's bed. Where the little kiddies think I'm sleeping is in the cot we fashioned for me under the Gallagher stairs, behind heavy blue curtains. There isn't an empty room, so we sort of made do. Not like it matters. I'm either at the Kash and Grab with Ian or hiding out in Ian's room late at night, getting mind blowing head or ass up with my face in a pillow.

We still haven't talked about the shit that has gone down between us. None of it. The initial. . .breakup or my being a junkie. And I never plan on talking about Greg, just like I know Ian never plans on telling me about the guys he fucked during our absence. It would do more harm than good.

Are we in a relationship? I don't know. I guess so, yeah. Honestly, I don't want to define Ian and I. Although an outside source would probably say that we're a couple. Not in the usual way. We don't do dates and spooning. We don't kiss or hold hands. We aren't sweet talking each other. No one knows about our fucking except a select few. I'd say Ian and I are merely friends with benefits, but even I know it's more than that. I'm just not bringing it up for fuck all. Not until shit hits the fan again. Which I know it eventually will. Call me a sadist.

That's another reason I have to move out of the Gallagher home. I'm getting too close with Ian. My intention had been to get back to where Ian and I left off; fooling around, not being mutually exclusive. But somewhere along those lines, everything went haywire. Streams were crossed. I don't know where the two of us stand. I don't know how to react or what to think. I'm scared shitless of what I'm feeling and I admit it only to myself.


	50. Help Me to Help You

Drabble Fifty : Help Me to Help You

"I need your help," I'm told by Lip, whose voice startles me awake. It's just after four in the afternoon. That's what the alarm clock on the floor, near my nose, is telling me when I crack an eye open. I groan and rub my face, still lying on my stomach over this uncomfortable cot. The house is an icebox. Shivering, I squirm deeper under the cover. My fuzzy brain comes into focus as I mull over earlier events. Ignoring impatient Lip. He's standing over me.

Ian and I had a fight this morning before he left for school. Not a verbal argument, but an actual fist fight. Over what, I don't remember. I think it may have had to do with my fucking the girl down the street last night. Don't ask me why I did that because even I don't know. At the time it made sense. Now I just feel awful about it, like a real shit. And I hate that I feel guilty. I hate the feeling because Ian is the reason it's there; I like him. I'm not supposed to like him as much as I do. We fuck and that's it. We play video games and smoke pot together. We shoot the shit about nonsense or sometimes don't talk for days, even though I sleep in his bed. I don't know.

Fuck fuck fuck.

I just want to smash something.

I'm not a queer. Or at least, I never thought I was. I don't really know what I used to think anymore. Ian's the first boy I had sex with. After that, I guess something just clicked. Slowly. But liking to get fucked by Ian and realizing that I genuinely care for him. . .well those are two different shades of red. And I ain't comfortable with it. I ain't okay with knowing that I might love Ian Clayton Gallagher.

I swallow my racing heart and sit up. Scowling and grumpy, I glare up at clueless Lip and snap, "Help with what, Gallagher? In case you missed it, I'm having a shitty day cause of your faggat ass brother."

Lip cocks a brow and hums curiously. He rubs his chin, thoughtfully, then licks his front teeth. After a pause, he nods to himself. Like he's figured something out. The thought that he might actually have read my deepest secret on my face somehow sends and ache to my stomach. As I swallow hard and grind my teeth, looking sourly past Lip, staring into space, he blurts, "You banged up too much to fight for me?"

Knitting my brow, I look back at Lip. He's on about the Fight Club. Shit. I ain't thought about that since splitting off of Greg. Arching my face wonderingly, I feel of my swollen cheek and figure, nah, I'm good to fight. It might actually make me feel a lot better. Fighting has always been a great release to me. The best possible way to vent. I've actually missed fighting for Lip and only just remembered.

"Fuck no. I'm good to go," I smile cockily. "Was wondering when you'd crawl back to me," I say and he kicks my shin spitefully, an unamused frown on his ugly mug.

* * *

**Note:** I don't actually think Lip has an ugly mug. But I figure it suits this version of Mickey to think that.


	51. Bad Taste

Drabble Fifty-One : Bad Taste

My first fight back is going awesomely. Everything is great. Lip's problem of losing his fighter is solved. My fist is bruised worse than before and covered in fresh blood. My lip is reopened. My ribs hurt. The man beneath me is a bloody mess. Fuckwads around us are losing it as money exchanges hands. Lip, he's yelling out in triumph, fist raised high in the air. Slamming in my chest, my heart rate gives new meaning to high blood pressure. But I love it. God how I've missed this. So much so that I don't give two fucks about Greg standing behind the line, glowering at me.

With both hands, I take hold of the stranger's ears and slam his head hard, one time, swift, into the pavement. And he's out like a light. I clammer to my feet, panting. When I wipe my forehead with the back of my naked arm, sweat mixes with blood and dirt and I'm filthy again. I'm a loose cannon finally fired off. I feel at home. Better than I have in a long time. Nothing can bring down my natural high.

Nothing except Greg.

Pissed off viewers have fled the scene. Some ran off with their money. The crowd that remains, hovers about whle paying up and chattering on, drinking. Between Lip and the two frat boys paying him, I catch sight of my sister trotting our way. Hot on her heels is the one person I don't want to make eye contact with right now. I scowl. But I'm still elated. And then it happens.

"Yo, Milkovich!" Greg's whiny voice booms from behind me as he helps up his losing fighter, handing over a towel and bottle of water.

I turn, brows together, mouth pursed, and eyeball him threateningly. He doesn't back off.

A cruel smile touches his face and he tucks his long, blonde hair behind his ear. He says to me, confident and laughingly, "Get hard up for tar cash again? Or was it that you just miss sucking my cock for some free hits and needed to see me?"

I don't see it, but by the warning way my sister's voice sounds out behind me, aimed at who I know to be Ian, I figure my apparent partner is steaming from the ears. I barely make out what Mandy's saying to him, but figure she's talking him out of fighting my battles for me. And she's right. I got this. Greg ain't shit.

What's actually bothering me, rather than his taunt, is that the left over crowd obviously heard his insinuation.

My eyes go wide and I sneer at him. "Better watch what flies outta your mouth," I growl at him lowly. "Give these people the wrong impression," I say, hoping to deflect any wandering thoughts from lingering listeners, "and I might just have to choke you fuck out and make a paste with your tongue to glue your mouth shut."

I don't want anyone knowing about my preferences that don't need to. It ain't no one's business. Plus I kind of like being alive and in one piece. This neighborhood will tear my gay ass a new one if the wrong person should find out. Greg makes it sound like I was doing all the gay action. Sorry to break it to him, but I wasn't always the bitch.

Greg's face droops for a split second. If I would have blinked, I'd have missed it. But then he's smiling again and shaking his head. He wets his lips and tilts his chin up at me. He says, "Don't for one second think you're fooling anyone." He steps up to me, then, nose to nose and glares down. The glint in his eyes tells me all too late that he's about to really fucking cut me deep. About to ruin me.

More things to note about me: I might act like nothing bothers me, but beneath the surface, I'm a bag of insecurities with little confidence when it comes to not being a fuck up.

"You ain't clean," he whispers in my ear hatefully, lips grazing my lobe. And reaches into his pocket. Thrusts something small and hard against my sternum. "You ain't never been," he says and I look down, squinting at the needle between us. It's capped, thank fucking Christ. He wiggles his brows once and goes, "Bet your insides burn at how bad you want it." Greg pressed the needle harder against me. "Just shoot it," he croons.

Anger bubbles up and I shove him back. The needle dings against the ground and rolls forward, against my boot. Stomping on it, I give Greg the bird and spit on his shoe. "Eat my taint," I hiss at him between my teeth. I put every ounce of hate I have for anything behind that statement. And when Mandy chases him off, I roll my eyes, push her away from me, and say, "I'm fucking fine, Mandy, Jesus!"

But I'm not because Greg's right. I want a hit so bad I taste iron. I didn't, but now I do. I can't take my eyes off the crushed needle.


	52. Listen

Drabble Fifty-Two : Listen

Lip and Mandy, they never waste time before going straight upstairs to their room. Which is exactly what they do when the four of us walk back home. This of course leaves Ian and I standing at the foot of the kitchen stairs. Ian's hands are in his jacket pockets while he looks on at me silently, face etched in sadness and concern. Me, I'm just feeling like maybe sleep will quell my erratic thoughts and wants and needs.

And fuck.

I wish I had told Lip no to the fight. Being around Greg, my previous supplier and fuck buddy, was a terrible idea this new into getting off the drugs. Exhaling slow and loud, I rub the crook of my lip and look back at Ian finally.

We haven't said a word to each other since this morning. His face is as bruised as my was before I made it worse just an hour ago. The way he's holding his side through the coat has me worried that maybe I broke one of his ribs. The thought rushes a remorseful heat through my veins and flushes my face and neck.

Ian reaches out with the hand not worrying his side and boldly grabs my raised wrist, pulling my hand away from my face. He furrows his brows at me and tells me not to shut him out. "Come upstairs," he says.

I pull my wrist back, but there is no harshness. Truth is, I'm feeling strangely vulnerable and I both detest it and kind of want to milk it and see Ian's reaction.

What the fuck is happening to me? I don't know. Why should I care how Ian feels about how I feel about anything? I used to not. When did that change? Why do I want him to fuck me slower and tell me I'm okay, that we're okay? Why do I want to feel his hands and mouth on my skin in a purely unsexual and comforting way? Since when would that be comforting? Since when do I need comforting? Why is my world suddenly upside down?

My thoughts make me nervous and I try to shut them off, almost successfully. Until Ian grabs my hand, determined, and stubbornly tugs me up two steps.

"Hey!" I snap, half-hearted. "Quit your shit, Ian," I say. "I can walk fine on my own, thank you," I gripe and pull my hand back. Even though I free myself and huff, inwardly I kind of want to undo the action.

Ian shrugs and looks pointedly at me before turning and going up the stairs. When I don't follow immediately, Ian looks back at me and arches both brows, serious.

Begrudging, I trudge up after him.

When we get upstairs, I'm oh so glad that everyone's doors are closed. I don't want my sister or Lip seeing me acting so fucking queer. Truth is, I'm ashamed of basically everything that's happening right now but don't want it to end, either. Because somehow I kind of like it. This new attention. I can hardly believe I've gotten this comfortable that I'd let my guard down this much to Ian. Yet here I am and so it is.

I plop down in the bean-bag beside Ian's door while he locks us in. He only gives me a single quizzical look before going over and sitting on the edge of his bed. His knuckles digging into the bed to each side of him, Ian sits there and watches me patiently. I sigh and stare at the pile of laundry and the wastebasket full of our used condoms. My face is a neutral mask. But I figure Ian can see what's going on since he's staring so intently into my eyes.

"You cool?" Ian's voice breaks our silence.

I nod, picking at my loose back tooth with the tip of my tongue. "I guess so," I say after a second thought. "Yeah, sure," I mumble. "Just swell," I say.

Ian sighs and hangs his head. "Look, Mickey," he says, "I don't know what that guy was talking about. And I don't think I want to know." He looks back up. The way he's talking, I can tell he means to get deep with this. Kind of I want to run to my cot. But before I can act on my thought, Ian says, "But I think you know he's an idiot."

My eyes twitch as I gaze back at Ian and frown. Heart flipping. Stomach twisting. My brain fires off mixed signals.

"He doesn't know you like I know you," Ian says, deadpan. "You're no junkie, Mickey. You're just a little fucked up right now," he says, full of conviction.


	53. Relapse

Drabble Fifty-Three : Relapse

Everyone's out. Except me because I lied about where I was going. I told Ian I wouldn't be in for work because Reba wants to meet up for a chat. Which sounded out of character to him, that I would even consider such a notion. But then, he believed me because the lie made sense, as did my supposed indifference to the idea. So now Ian's at work, Lip is at Carl's parent teacher bullshit, Mandy's who knows where but probably at that hair school trying to convince someone to let her in the program. The baby is with that batty woman down the street. Debbie ran out crying because of something to do with Frank. I'm alone finally when I pull out a needle, spoon, cotton, lighter, and the stuff I bought off some hood-rat by the bay.

Do I really want to do this? Yes and no. But definitely yes. Or maybe no.

It doesn't matter because if I don't do it, I might claw my skin off.

Ever since Greg's taunt, shooting up just one more time is all I can think about. How it feels and how much I miss it burns a hole through my chest. Until I finally tie my arm up and the drug courses through my veins. Calms me. I moan and fall back against the sofa. Quick, I tug off the rubber tie and drop the needle beside me. My head lolls back and I just breath and stare up at the ceiling. Let the high wash over me. I'll ignore the wetness on my cheek for now. God I'm going to regret this later. I kind of already do. But I feel too at peace to let the guilt weigh on me as it should.

How long I'm sitting there, I don't know. I wake up to the sound of angry tears. My eye fly open and I struggle to clear my head. The high isn't completely over, but almost. I'm fuzzy. Starring up at Ian, my stomach drops. I just know I look like a kicked puppy.

He's more than a little angry. On his hip is Liam, sucking on an action figure. Ian's eyes are bloodshot and wet. He's baring his teeth at me in silence. He shakes his head and storms up the steps without a word. When he comes back down, I've only managed to bend forward and locate the needle, jabbed into the sofa by my hip. I sit the needle and tie on the coffee table with the cotton and spoon. I don't know where the lighter went. Touching my face, I will my heart to slow down. Fucking nervous as I am now, I might kill over.

"God damn you!" Ian screams on his way back down the stairs.

I wince as he rounds the sofa, standing there with his hand on his hip, face still every bit of angry and sad.

"I thought you were at work," I comment, apprehensive, wishing I hadn't chosen today to fuck up.

Ian flails an arm, furious. "Yeah, well, I'm not!" he barks. "Liam got sick and someone had to go get him," he says. Surveying the coffee table, he sighs heavily and his eyes well up. "Mickey, Jesus Christ," he groans and I can hear the depression in his tone. Ian holds his face, breaths for a while.

I have no idea what to even say. Sorry really isn't going to cut it, even though I am.

When he's done thinking or whatever he'd been at, Ian looks at me and swallows. His face settles into the mask I remember from our breakup a little over a year ago. Hard to read. But definitely sad and angry. Determined, this time. "Why?" he asks me, more of a command.

Blinking a few times up at him, my eyes wide, I stutter out something even I don't understand. Then scratch the back of my head and chew my bottom lip. There's a ball in my throat that aches worse than ever before. "Man, I fucked up," I say, looking instead at the table top and all of my evidence. "I don't know," I shrug, clearing my throat, refusing to fucking cry. "I just. . .I needed to," I say, helpless, and hug myself then fall back into the sofa. I won't meet his eyes because I'm afraid what's there.

Ian, he paces the floor for a minute, stops by the archway. With his back to me and his arms crossed, he says, "So you lied to me." There's a second where I think he's going to leave this and storm out the backdoor. But then Ian asks, "Who did you buy off of?" and his voice is so hurt, so weak, and yet accusing.

I skewer my face up. "Don't go there, Ian! It ain't your business!" I bite. Because he means to think I went back to Greg. And I might have fallen off the wagon, but hell will freeze before I stoop so low again.

"No, Mickey! I'll go where I want with this! _You_ _are_ my business!" Ian bellows, turning around. He's livid by now. His face is almost purple. Marching toward me, Ian towers over the sofa. "Stay put!" he growls.

And he leaves me sitting on the couch, more confused than I've felt since childhood. Slams the front door on his way out. Liam cries from upstairs.

"Shit," I breathe, falling forward, head between my knees.


	54. Grand Slam

Drabble Fifty-Four : Grand Slam

Being scared sobered me up quick. Ian had been out the door maybe a minute before I trashed the remains of my behavior, went upstairs and grabbed the kid. Before I bolted out the front door and ran straight after him, Liam laughing as he bounced about against my side. I don't have to wonder where Ian's off to. It's pretty fucking clear to me what the guy means to do, and I have to stop him. Because as much as I'd like to put the blame on someone for my relapse, I can't let Ian accidentally kill Greg. Mostly because, if Reba taught me anything, it's that I'm responsible for my own actions. Secondly because I don't want Ian stripping his record because of my stupid ass.

So I run and Liam think this is the best thing since clean diapers. The kid slows me down enough that I lose track of Ian, screaming after him as I swerve through the streets. Ian's already boarded the El by the time I make it up the stairs.

"Fuck!" I call out, twirling around. A crowd of people look at me funny as I stand there, panting and cursing Liam for slowing me down too much. "You little shit," I hiss at Liam's goofy face. "Why am I even bringing you?" I ask, more to myself. I could have easily left the boy in his crib. Lip and Carl will be home soon. He'd have been fine. But I can't go back on my decision, so I stand there, waiting for the next transport.

It doesn't take that long. But certainly long enough that Ian's probably in Greg's part of Chicago by now.

When I get to Greg's neighborhood, the sun is only just setting. Liam's crying because he's tired. Or maybe he's hungry with a filthy diaper. Either way, I have no way of making him shut up. And he's weighing me down. I'm twice as exhausted, having run most of the time, than I would have been had Liam not been on me. Panting as I barely jog Greg's street, I can see Ian marching straight over the bed of flowers that Greg's adoptive mother paid a lot of money for.

He must have slowed his pace down at some point for me to be this caught up. Frantic, I sprint forward. My lungs are on fire and my legs might just give out.

Ahead of Ian, it's suddenly obvious to me that Greg's parents are home. The brand new mini-van is parked just outside the open garage door. And Greg? He's standing in front of the van, completely unaware, taking his jacket off and laughing with his kid neighbor. The little girl is pushing candy bars at him, and he hands her a five dollar bill.

Anyone would think Greg is an outstanding citizen. Buying school chocolates from little girls and shit. No one would suspect this is the guy who let me pound into him for smack every Friday night.

I'd yell at Ian to hold on and change his mind on this, but I can't hardly breathe, much less scream. I'm wheezy by the time I reach the driveway and stare wide eyed at Ian's bold approach to this. Had the situation been different, I may have gotten a stiffy. Standing still, I stare on as the gingered Gallagher stomps over and yanks startled Greg against the van.

Greg's eyes are the size of saucers. I can't really hear what he's rambling on about, but he's holding his arms out in surrender and self defense. To which Ian barks out something and knees this asshole right in the groin. Greg slides down the van, holding himself and groaning. Ian's next move is too fast for Greg to react.

The neighbor girl, she's screaming and running away, chocolates falling in a trail behind her. These innocent rich people. They haven't seen shit like this. Where I'm from, this is actually pretty tame.

The second time, Ian's knee connects with Greg's chin. And while Greg's reaching for his bitten lip, Ian pulls him up, simultaneously opening the van's door. With a look of determination and pure malice on his face, Ian Gallagher slams begging Greg's hand into the van door. Greg's scream is loud enough to alert his parents. Mr. and Mrs. they come running out the front door, alarmed, phone in hand as Mr. calls the cops.

Ian drops Greg like a sack of potatoes. He points down at Greg, running backward, while the guy clutches his ruined hand. What Ian threatens, I don't know. But I've never been so turned on. And it's awkward, being as I'm holding this whining kid. Thankfully, Ian rushes past and grabs Liam. He only glares at me for a second before we're running away, sirens coming at us in the distance.


	55. Promise Me

Drabble Fifty-Five : Promise Me

Outrunning Chicago's finest isn't as difficult as one would think. They're fast. And yeah, sure, Ian was slowed down by Liam, but a car can't hop fences and quickly board the El. We lost the police and didn't get off at our exit until the fifth time around, just to be on the safe side. While I'm certain that the police who were tailing Ian and I have no clue where we live, it's still risky.

So when we walk through the front door, it's nearly nine o'clock at night. Liam is struggling in Ian's arms. Starving. And he's not the only one. Ian looks white as a sheet and hasn't said more than three words to me. I'm panicky and sick. My body wants another hit already and I refuse to give in to this a second time.

Mandy's on her feet from the sofa the second we walk in. Her legs swing off of Lip's lap fast and she's looking at both of us dead on, teeth bared and fists by her sides. Lip looks equally as pissed off. "What the fuck did you two do?" Mandy screams. "The cops were here for almost an hour!" she screams. "I had to flush all my pills!" she says. And it's not pills my sister's been taking, it's the pills she sells. After the funeral, Mandy apparently found a shit ton of old, not yet expired prescriptions for Percocet and such. She's been selling them for quite a bit and I'm not judging her for it. No one is. So long as I can keep myself out of them, which hasn't been a problem. Hopefully my relapse won't change things. If she had to flush at least four hundred bucks worth of pills, no wonder she's this angry at us.

Ian sighs and spares a sideways glance at me. Pursing his lips and crossing his arms, he looks at the stair, rolls his eyes and says, "Guess they did know who we were."

Mandy growls and cusses incoherently. Lip just shakes his head and stares off into space, beer bottle by his hip. He takes a sip and says, "Chill out, Mandy, I handled it."

"That's not the point!" Mandy snaps, turning on Lip and forgetting about me and Ian. They start arguing. Clearly the two are at odds and my sister's anger has less to do with Ian and I fetching cop trouble than it does with whatever Lip did to get himself in the doghouse.

Ian is quick to sit Liam down and give me a look before we sneak off upstairs.

Once in his room, I finally breath. He falls onto his back atop the bed, holding his face. I give it a minute, leaning on the locked door, before I ask him, "Does this mean we're cool?"

Ian chuckles, deep and throaty. He slowly lets go of his face, arms slapping the bed. And he lays there, stare at his ceiling. Eventually, he breaks the tension, stops my fear, and says, "That depends."

"Depends on what?" I ask, edging toward his bed, hands in my pockets.

He doesn't sit up, doesn't. Doesn't laugh. Just goes, "Are you done with it? Because if you're not, Mickey, I won't put up with it."

The bed creaks as I sit down beside Ian, hands in my lap as I stare at my feet. I know what he wants to hear. Ian wants me to apologize and tell him I won't fuck up again. And hopefully I won't, but it's not a promise I'm going to make. No one's fucking perfect. I sigh, chew my tongue, and look over at him. I don't when this level of comfort passed over the two of us, but it has and I'm for once glad about it. Without letting myself think about what I'm going to do, I lift up and swing half my body over, so that I am straddling Ian's hips. He's stunned, brows knitted, chest hitched. he leans up on his elbows and stares at me. There is fear and confusion in his eyes. Fear probably that I might strike him. Which is stupid. I should think that the level of calm on my face is a tale tale of my current emotion. Blinking down at Ian, I rest my hands on my knees.

"Look," I start, exhaling loudly, "I ain't saying I won't ever fuck up again. How would I know that?"

Things to note about Ian are: he just gets me. I don't have to say much. He just knows things.

"But I'll try, all right?" I say, frowning, heart racing in my chest because what if I've read this wrong and Ian's about to shove me off and throw me out.

Ian looks me over. He swallows and I watch his throat bob. "Why should I believe you?" he asks me, honest.

Reaching up, I rub my lip and say, holding his gaze, "Because nobody's ever gave a shit." I let my eyes trail down his neck and focus on the V of his shirt. I rest my hands there. "Because," I say, "you do, for some fucking reason." A smile tugs at my face and I tilt my head, bunch his shirt collar loosely between my fingers. "And that matters to me. I like being someone's business," I say and he chuckles, shaking me slightly. I breath out, not really sure what to say next. I didn't have an angle with this, and I usually do. I'm never this soft. But the heart beat under my palm makes me ache inside. Ache with something I don't remember having ever felt. A need to prove myself. And not to prove how tough I am, how much I can take, how ruthless I can be. I don't what I feel like proving, but I know it, whatever it is, is solely for Ian.

Ian sits up against me, grabs my waist to steady us, and doesn't break eye contact for even one second. When he leans in, my stomach jumps. Fast, he pushes his face into my neck and presses his lips to my collar bone. Ian stills his mouth. I feel his lashes beat against my neck. My pulse sounds off in my ears. My groin throbs. And I breath out in hot, wet breaths as Ian snakes a hand down the front of my pants. The moan that tries to escape me, I stamp out as Ian pulls his face back and looks up at me. His own small pants hit against my chin.

"Mick," he tells me, "I think I love you."

And that, I hadn't been expecting. I clench my jaw, heart ready to leap out at this point. My stomach turns from my nerves. But no. I won't jump off him and spit something hateful. Not this time. For one, because that would be counter productive. For two, because even though I ain't going to admit to it, maybe I love him too. Just a little. Maybe I've known that for a while.

"Yeah," I say, tight, then swallow.

He presses our lips together. I don't hold back.

* * *

**NOTE: **Well this has been both a headache and fun to write. I'm certainly glad it's over! I hope you guys have enjoyed it XD

Keeping Mickey in character during this last one was truly a challenge. Hopefully I pulled it off.


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